For me the RX is, of course, the bike.  When the electricals in my daughter's brain are back to normal and the bills are paid and I've put Viv's understanding of life back on track with my soft yet manly voice of reason, it's time to make my way into the garage to begin a consultation with the good doctors Harley and Davidson.

The sunset this evening was pure tropics, with a sky that took you, pulled you up with it, a sky twice as expansive and three times as heavy.  That Magee fellow had it right with his "Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue," and tonight the Hand tossed in some verticals of searing orange and reds and purples gone mad and rounded clouds that bent the light and sent it through hallways wide as states, with drapes of virga, curtains of wet that met the heat of farmland and dried a mile up.  Just beyond the tractors and the pumps and the ditch by the highway -- the sudden wild sea.

September showers bring dad's flowery writing out where everyone can catch a whiff and wonder where it comes from.

Sixty miles an hour, alone on the straights, sideglancing down the furrows -- it's a pure visual lesson in perspective.