Happy Trails From The Narrow Way

I have woken hundreds of times on the road and weary.  In tents, the finest hotels, antebellum mansions, guest houses, and road houses.  All with the Ancient of Days and art. 

Here I am again on a cold, rainy morning, dark coffee, 12-foot ceilings, a four-poster bed, old furniture from the early part of the last century, and thick, soft rugs.  Old has a certain smell, like the Rock of Ages, years laid by on years, the deep fragrance of time.  I suppose I am beginning to smell that way, incense of age, more and more of me floating into eternity.

Another art show, another lecture, another time to waken my lover for a warm shower and a long journey back to Fair Haven.  Happy Trails from the narrow way.