I was walking with a friend and

his floppy Springer Spaniel. John was a second father to me in high school, a preacher, a vet who would die too early - Agent Orange. John might talk about jogging into a tree because he'd been mesmerized by the clouds.

                "I've always liked cloudy days myself," said I.

                "Why is that?"

                "Too much light gives me nothing. I like the unfair shafts bringing my attention to some sapling or that corner of the basketball court where trash and leaves have accumulated."

                "I still think you might become a preacher."

                "Like you?" I said.

                "Ha ha, no, like you."