Hors d’oeuvres anyone?

I’m reading Peace Like a River by Leif Enger again, this time taking it slower and savoring as I read.  And it’s worthy of savoring.  Here’s a taste:Peace Like a River

Cresting a long hill we stopped a moment while Fry [a horse] blew and stooped and clipped at the snow as though for browse.  I let go of Davy to sit straight.  I can’t describe what we saw.  Here was the whole dizzying sky bowled up over us.  We were inside the sky.  It didn’t make the stars any closer, only clearer.  They burned yellow and white, and some of them changed to blue or a cold green or orange — Swede should’ve been there, she’d have had words.  She’d have known that orange to be volcanic or forgestruck or a pinprick between our blackened world and one the color of sunsets.  I thought of God making it all, picking up handfuls of whatever material, iron and other stuff, rolling it in His fingers like nubby wheat.  The picture I had was of God taking these rough pellets by the handful and casting them gently, like a man planting.  Look at the Milky Way.  It has that pattern, doesn’t it, of having been cast there by the back-and-forward sweep of His arm?

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