"Okay," says Middlest.
We continue on in silence. Companionable. Not unhappy. We've spent many hours this autumn-into-winter, side by side here as she gets in her driving hours.
Out of this silence (for which I am also thankful, but it would be a profanation to insist too loudly on such a quiet thing) I sigh, gustily, clowningly, "Too bad we don't live in an Age of Poetry. You could recite poetry to me - calm this restless feeling and banish the thoughts of day?"
"I know poetry," says this endlessly surprising being.
"That's right." How could I have forgotten?
And she begins,
"The owl and the pussycat went to seafrom stanza to stanza, faultlessly, until my memory of her high-pitched high-speed four-year-old voice and my laughter now at this elegant fowl she's grown into are also dancing hand in hand at the edge of the sand by the light of the moon, the moon . . .
in a bYOOtiful pea green boat.
They took some honey and PLENTY of money
tied up in a five pound note . . . "