Last night

We were on the porch, and I was giving Robert a variation on "A Hundred Million Miracles" (Flower Drum Song was on Turner a few weeks back, and it's still echoing in my head).

I started waxing poetic about the silhouettes of palms against the sky when the evening light reaches a certain level: black against richest South Sea pearl gray, fronds defined by a flurry of cuts with an X-acto knife.

And then another sort of slice appeared. Hundred million and one.