| A man out walking a golf course in a light rain, no clubs, just a plastic slicker over his shoulders. . . walking the fairways, skirting the pleasant-shaped pond with its quiet lily pads, here and there standing beneath an oak or elm, gazing into the distance. And the rain keeps lightly falling, the man knows something as important as how to introduce his day soul to his night soul, but there’s a golf course to walk, a tournament to plan, no one on the course but him—walking each green in the small rain now so lightly falling. |
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