Fibonacci Sequence

The numbers 1235 on a license plate today and I wondered if it was a vanity tag. I went on with the sequence in my head, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89. I've played simple number games with license plates since I was a kid. Service brat, moving all the time, a dozen trips back and forth to Colorado, dozens of trips to Florida, it's a lot of license plates. Nice email from Linda, now at the Guthrie, talking about nests. I videoed the eaglets but it's lost forever. Interesting nest, as it was shared by both Golden and Bald eagles, whoever got it first, and it had grown to enormous dimension, filled a 12 foot ledge maybe 15 feet long. They'd build a new nest in the middle and as the young got older they'd kick the sides out to become another layer on the frame nest, which became a playpen. Excellent dynamic use of space. I dove with Navy divers, before there were Seals, when we lived in Key West. Spent 25% of my waking hours under water. A fish bed is very like a nest; for a moray eel, the hole in a rock. The divers would goad them out with a stick and shoot with a spear gun. A beach fire, skin one out and cut it into chunks, dip in soy sauce and cook on a stick. Sharp briny taste, not at all the muddy eel debacle on Cape Cod years later; remembering those Key West moray eels, fresh, from clean salt water, is what got me involved with gigging eels on the Cape. Awful tasting. Some of my worst meals. The Conger eel is quite good though. Almost anything from clean tidal zones is good to eat. At the first print shop, East Dennis, Mass. we were finishing the press runs on a four-color cover that we were letter-pressing, and the poet was there, and several other poets, and we decided to pool resources, fix dinner and celebrate. We had enough money for either booze or food and went with the booze. Then all walked down to where Quivet Creek flows into Cape Cod Bay. In an hour we'd collected mesh bags full of muscles, clams of every sort, and at Enslin's command, a large bag of periwinkles, quite small sea snails; in size, from the last joint of my little finger, to the last joint of my pointing finger. A gallon of Gallo white, some chopped scallions, some garlic, a five gallon kettle, the periwinkles on the bottom (raises the level of cooking liquid, your smallest fines on the bottom. We had bread I had baked, the week's supply, ate in the back yard, creating a midden as we worked our way through the pot. Smoking a local hybrid, drinking red dago, dipping bread in the heavenly broth, we got down to the snails and looked at Enslin. He produced, from the pocket of his filthy jeans, some large safety pins, 2 inchers, he liked them, he explained, because when they were open, you had a handle. You grip them on whatever that thing is called where you safety the pin, your thumb and forefinger grip well there and you secure that shaft with the meat of your thumb and the last joint of your first finger. Elementary, Watson, and that allows you to stick the pointed end into the shell, then give a twist. You have a morsel about the size of a pistachio nut, out of the shell, but so good, and you can eat them forever because you exert more energy than calories you take in. We ate half-a-gallon apiece, dipping them mostly in the broth, but over the course of a long evening, you might try some in bbq sauce, or an aioli. Lemon juice and black pepper is a favorite. Even snails that are too impossible to eat you can drink, make a broth. What was I saying earlier, you simply find yourself there. No excuse, you don't need one, merely what is...