As the old saying goes,
Everybody talks about the weather,
but nobody does anything about it.

I am doing something about it.
I am in the car, driving toward the sun,
feeling a little like Icarus, though I doubt

I will get anywhere close to burning up.
After two weeks sucked deep into
valley fog, even the barest rays will do.

It would appear that I am going solo
on this mini adventure, but I know
that I travel with so many angels

and saints on board bringing me their luck,
particularly the companion spirits
who always ride shotgun.

They never argue about who gets the seat
next to me, and, in fact, don’t need to sit
at all, disembodied as they are.

But I think of them as a collective,
their voices and faces cutting through
the insistent fog. And when, heading east

toward the mountains, just before
Shingle Springs, the shroud begins to
rise and dissolve, and blue sky appears,

a cheer goes round: There it is!
As if witnessing a miracle, which it
kind of is. The singers among us break

into a chorus of here comes the sun
(George, I hear you in there, too—
you can’t resist, can you?),

and everything heavy lifts like
the dissipating gray that vanishes.
Because it does seem like years

since it’s been here, and we all
doo-doo-doo-doo our way into
the cute mountain town where

I park and walk and take photos
of my own shadow, just because
I can, trying not to think of

the moment, not long from now,
when I must descend into
the underworld again.

But this time, carrying so much
light in my little backpack.
So. Much. Light.

•••

(With thanks to singer/songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter for her evocative line, “saint[s] on board bringing me their luck” from her lovely song “Between Here and Gone.” And equally hearty gratitude to the late, great George Harrison for “Here Comes the Sun,” which, if he’d written nothing else, would have been more than enough. It is, to this day, the most digitally streamed Beatles song ever.)