I was looking out my back window this Sunday morning and about ten feet away I noticed a bug climbing a blade of grass. I shouldn't have been able to see something so small at that distance, but the blade was angled just so that the bug glinted like polished bronze in the sun. She struggled up that smooth green slippery surface until it bent down and was hidden. I waited a few moments to see if it would fling her into the air when she reached the end, but neither bug nor blade reappeared. Like Frosts's birches, it set her set her gently down again onto the earth, bent for the moment by her passing.
And it struck me then how vast the world is, and how very very tiny is our part in it. And how many many stories come and go without notice. And how writers, the ones who notice and record, have an impossible and important job to do. One could do worse than be a writer of notices.