Somewhere in the Arizona desert, I pull the white whale to a crunching stop on a patch of roadside dirt, on the crest of a small hill, north of Paulden Arizona.
“What are we doing out here?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Hey! What’s going on?”
“Stars,” I say. "We have stopped to see the stars.”
Most people like to look at mountain rivers, and bear them in mind; but few care to look at the wind, though far more beautiful and sublime, and though they become at times about as visible as flowing water.