Round river stone a Pleistocene cannonball.
Slender-fronded fern, diminished but identical to
the 3-story trees that shaded the dinosaurs,
tight-fisted palm a thousand miles from
the desert, thrusting high and comfortable in
the company of grass.

Unwitting, we participate in a vast, silent
inheritance of time which can be seen as
mindless experimentation or the cunning conspiracy
to produce life, a life, your life in just such a
complexity and pattern.

This performance is edgeless and unbounded.
You cannot get out.
You can imagine a whole science of separation
but it will not blunt the most minor note
in the slow euphony whose throat is using
your life to say some as-yet unspoken
beautiful thing.