Friday Pie-Blogging: Second Coming of Wednesday Edition

Look, up in the sky! Just there over the mountains and under the clouds and behind the pulleys and levers they use to raise and lower the sun there's the shine of a plate and a flaky brown crust and the sweet smell of fresh fruit filling and could it be... could it be pie?

Now dogs are barkin and kids are pointin and grown men are fallin over in the street and the president is on the TV goin Hey now let's stay calm here people when he breaks down in tears on accounta he never really believed in pie before now an now there's little kids and granmas and popes and things lining up from all over in the streets to see the pie when it lands and one very old man, one very very old man like ninety or a hundred or a thousand years old and he hasn't seen a pie since he was real little watchin the very last pies leave on their boats and their ships and their magical space comets goin back to their mysterious mystical land of pie and the old man always thought he'd never live to see the pies come back even though he is a thousand or ten thousand or a billion years old and a single lonely tear rolls down his ancient wooden face even though his tear ducts have not worked since the signing of the Magna Carta (stupid Magna Carta) and are currently used as homes for a variety of small woodland creatures because he believes... he believes in pie.

And the pie is closer than ever now and we are believing in it harder than ever, believing in its power to be delicious and toothsome and just, to heal the sick and fix the lame and grow the short and shorten the tall and restore liquidity to the credit markets and make the world a kinder and gentler and better place where oh wait it's not a pie at all, it is an enraged bull walrus, how embarrassing! Dozens are mauled by its terrible, terrible tusks.

When it is over the survivors will limp away to their homes and their hospitals and their orphanages to cry their sad pieless tears and dream of a better, more pielike day to come. They gaze out of their windows at the faraway clouds, hoping of pies and thinking of pies and whittling little pie shapes out of their old crutches. But they know, deep down inside, that one day the pie will come. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the day after tomorrow, or the week after that, but when it comes they will be there. It will probably be another walrus.