We came home over the Blue Mountains in the later evening, rolling through the dry road fenced with towering cliffsides and sprawling cement works, some abandoned, others brightly lit. Rocks and earth and night sky, fringed with incandescent purple.
I'm reading portions of Donald Kagan's history, "The Peloponnesian War", a surprisingly detailed and sophisticated account that makes Thucydides look like a tabloid columnist. While driving through the basins of Idaho and the rough slopes of eastern Oregon, my mind wanders through the Aegean, ticking off the lights on the horizon with ancient names: Potidaea, Mantinea, Pylos, Epidaurus, Piraeus, Megara. I am heavy with the old sadness, that comes with realizing how little we've changed, how well-worn the paths of foolishness are. I am still sailing the wine-dark sky.