Finally they were leaving. One QRPer, the one always dragging in Bartlett’s and the abridged version of DXer poetry, hung back a bit and slipped us a note. “I knew what was happening and I wrote this for the group. I hope you’ll like it.” And then he was gone. The note read….
Let us go then, you and I,
To where the evening meets the sky
To where the yesterdays have gone,
To where the words are always song.
It got us. When we looked again the group was down the hill, about the place where the road enters the trees. They paused there and raised their hands and from down the hill drifted the shout – “DX Is !!” And then they were gone. And we doubted that we would ever see them again. Things had run their course.
And thus it ends……..
But there’s a little more to the story.
From the June 28th edition of Quintessence, my weekly personal letter about amateur radio. Subscribe for free and I’ll send it to you — then you’ll know the rest of the story.