For reasons I can never fathom, a great love, clearly not mine, has come to nest in this inhospitable head and angst-ridden ribcage. From there it tries, most unreasonably, to address some small sector of the deeply fractured, busy, conflicted human hive. Time after time, finally aware that this broadcasting perch is poorly located, wrongly wired, and therefore incapable of eliciting proper attention to what it has to say, love pushes me towards my bike and, despite that it’s a workday and the dogs are yawping far too close to my heels, it drives me to a nearby stream where it likes to spend hours calmly caressing its pools, rapids, and banks with still alien, but wide-open eyes. It almost never fails to happen, despite the opaqueness of gray matter, sinew, bone, and flesh, the mystery becomes apparent as silence meets silence and love enters love.