Ever bought just one tire? I usually go in fours. But a few years ago, while traveling, I picked up a bolt in the sidewall of a nearly new tire. I had one of those baby spares—good for getting you off the road but not much else—so I had to buy a single tire just to get home.
Problem was, I couldn’t find the same brand. So, I bought a different one. Then, once I got home, I replaced that oddball with a match for the original set. In the end, I bought two tries to replace one. And I was left with an extra, which I eventually gave away. The math made my head spin.
Still, it beat my younger days, when “a set of tires” wasn’t even in my vocabulary. Back then, four different brands on one car was normal. Replacing a blowout with a used retread? That was luxury.
“The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive.” — Bill Watterson
"Ten Brown Pelicans soar overhead in loose formation, their wings outstretched like sails catching invisible wind. The sky behind them is a layered wash of white and gray clouds, with soft patches of blue peeking through—like a watercolor sky mid-thought. The birds are large and deliberate, each one suspended mid-flight, their long bills pointed forward, their bodies streamlined for distance.
The formation is loosely V-shaped, not rigid—more like a conversation than a command. Some birds fly slightly higher, others lower, creating a rhythm of motion that feels both choreographed and casual. Their wings are broad and slightly bowed, tips feathered like brushstrokes, and their silhouettes shift subtly against the changing light.
There’s no visible land, no horizon—just sky and movement. The pelicans seem to float rather than fly, their pace unhurried, their purpose quiet. It’s a moment of aerial ceremony, a migration not just of bodies but of instinct and memory.