Looking out over the creek which the hill sends down to us we can wonder how far the mind reaches. Words are dismal emblems for this departing and arriving of the sun over the grass and the blossoms that must come. As it does, we are shorn from the seasons of a gradual nature and lost in bright scavenging before any name is recognized. Raw and open babies are knitted to the world when earnest pulsings are felt and words have their echoes. When this flowering fails and the sun gathers its motes into distant rains we cull the fields for tenderness in those scars of mourning that reach the center of everything.