Somewhere in the Arizona desert, I pull the white whale to a crunching stop on a patch of roadside dirt, on the crest of a small hill, north of Paulden Arizona.
“What are we doing out here?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Hey! What’s going on?”
“Stars,” I say. "We have stopped to see the stars.”
Most people like to look at mountain rivers, and bear them in mind; but few care to look at the wind, though far more beautiful and sublime, and though they become at times about as visible as flowing water.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!