T
wo teenaged boys riding bicycles down through the backcountry roads of my rural town in the Summer, trailing behind them the whiplines of fishing rods. I feel blessed just to have seen it. To them, I'm sure cruising downhill on dirt roads to the reservoir feels completely normal -- better than being in school, they'd say. But their idle Summer day is a living poem, whether they know it or not. Hopefully, these memories ferment in their souls, and become a rich wine in their later years, that will sustain them, and grant them great generosity of soul. God bless them.