29 JUNE 1985, Page 26

The Possible

In meadow grass the crickets call for mates. Their high, insistent bowing scores the air, and like the keenest scores, it orchestrates a mood. The moonless night displays a rare and varied brilliance, stars so plentiful they imitate the lights of some great city viewed from several miles up, attainable though distant, a plain of possibility which the pilot, in his kindness, tips a wing to let us see, affording just a glimpse of what's below before it slips forever from our sight. We learn to trust such moments, and derive from them a taste of what we are. Or what we have to face.

Fred Muratori