Algy had not needed the weather birds to tell him that a change in the weather was on its way, for a thick haze out to sea had become more and more dense as the week progressed, eventually blotting out the islands entirely, and on Saturday the sky clouded over completely and the spell of fine, dry weather was at an end. By the evening it was raining…
So when Sunday dawned cold, wet and windy, Algy was not even surprised by the ice that was mixed in with the squally showers of rain, for that was typical of mid-April in the wild west Highlands of Scotland; he confidently expected the rain to turn to sleet by nightfall.
At times, however, the sun managed to break through, and although the wind was icy and the the "feels like" temperature was near freezing, it was not too unpleasant if one kept close to the ground. So Algy found a spot where the wind was busy creating a temporary magical carpet while the bees still buzzed in the blossom overhead, and as the delicate white petals floated down around him, Algy opened his book of poetry and read:
Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
[Algy is reading the poem Miracles by the 19th century American poet Walt Whitman.]
