Tonight at sundown we transit into the Jewish high holiday of Yom Kippur. This is a time of introspection, undisturbed by earthly distractions. It’s time to note where one has not lived up to the mark of one’s highest aspirations.
Do you know the Carl Sandburg poem Fog?
Six lines of perfection, about how the fog comes in on little cat feet and, sitting on silent haunches, surveys harbor and city and then moves on.
I take my cue from Barnes. I love the inquiring look on his face here.
I love how from the side, his markings make his nose look like a little white button.
As the pain in this year of loss is surveyed, like fog on silent haunches, may Barney’s grounded presence be balm.
Before moving on.