When mou net contributors get caught up in what and how to count in approve= d ways, I am reminded of Mary Oliver's lovely poem:
Snowy Night =A0 Last night, an owl in the blue dark tossed an indeterminate number =A0 of carefully shaped sounds into the world, in which, a quarter of a mile away, I happened to be standing. =A0 I couldn=B9t tell which one it was =AD the barred or the great-horned ship of the air =AD =A0 it was that distant.=A0 But, anyway, aren=B9t there moments that are better than knowing something, and sweeter?=A0 Snow was falling, =A0 so much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more =A0 than prettiness.=A0 I suppose if this were someone else=B9s story they would have insisted on=A0 knowing whatever is knowable =AD would have hurried =A0 over the fields to name it =AD the owl, I mean. But it=B9s mine, this poem of the night, and I just stood there, listening and holding out =A0 my hands to the soft glitter falling through the air.=A0=A0 I love this world, but not for its answers. And I wish good luck to the owl, =A0 whatever its name =AD and I wish great welcome to the snow, whatever its severe and comfortless and beautiful meaning. =A0 ~ Mary Oliver ~ =A0 =A0
