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The Night John Prine died

A super moon rises high in the east above the smokehouse, above the tall pines. A moon impossibly large and bright moves closer and closer, intent on absorbing my heart. To the north, thunder rumbles and lightning flashes as a storm moves along the mountain. Oddly, violent black clouds blow from the south toward the moon but the moon only slices through them, finding holes and illuminating the jagged edges of the clouds in a surreal glow. The illumination is heavenly and even edged with rainbows. God, you are lucky tonight. Our loss is your gain. If anyone deserves Heaven, it is him.

He was to us an honest chronicler of our times. One with an unfailing compassion for the human condition few of us could muster, but were always relieved to hear him tell us about. Tonight, I have lost an old, dear friend. Someone who has been with me most of my life. A friend who has helped me through the darkest times my soul has endured. I don’t know if I would have made it without him.

And now there’s sixteen angels dancin’ ‘cross the moon