The President prays to his helicopter. "Why me, O, Lord, why me? Some folks sit on the fence, waiting for the voice from the whirlwind. I gotta make my own wind." Small needy voices in utero whisper to him. The President prays in his helicopter. Grass bends in his breeze. Dogs run away. The power button is carried aboard by an aide. It doesn't simply vanish when the President sets foot in his helicopter, heading for his weekend of prayer at Camp David. History seems to take a time-out as the President flies from one place to another. It gets up from its place on the couch and visits the fridge and the bathroom. To his dogs on the White House lawn the President shrinks to the size of a gnat in the gut of a huge whirlybird of prey. Picking at his scabs, the President soars above the drought-plagued farmland below him. "Why me, O, Lord? Why on my watch? What next? (he wonders) locusts and frogs? Babies dying in their mothers' rooms . . . I mean wombs. Why me, O, Lord? Why make it so hard for me to get the words right?"
Halvard Johnson =============== email: firstname.lastname@example.org website: http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard