I've taken, after a gap of many years, to walking the perimeter path of my local park, Millar Park in University City.
It's not a very long walk. Just one half of a mile from beginning to end.
Nor is the park that spectacular. Its most appealing quality are the trees that straddle the concrete walkway almost all the way round.
A few weeks ago a dense mist settled on the area. The park is on a hill, so it rose a little above the foggiest areas, but enough remained to give it that sense of compression that I was always feel in a fog.
Compression because the only things clearly visible are close to you. What was once distant yet distinct is now obscured and opaque.
When I learned today that Cowbird was finally closing down as an active collector of stories, I felt a similar sense of compression settle over me.
What once seemed clear and distinct, a view far into the future, has become clouded and veiled. Look a little further into the future and it disappears forever.
Yet is it forever?
Just as this path recaptured my interest after years of neglect, I find myself perfectly capable of believing that a new Cowbird - maybe not called the same and maybe not run by the same fine folk - will emerge. Or maybe even the old Cowbird might revive.
We go round and round in our lives. I'm old enough to know that much that seems lost is not, and much that seems new is not.
I find these thoughts comforting. Meanwhile, in these last few days of the Cowbird that I know, I want to thank everyone involved for a quite delightful journey.