While reading early this morning, a small leaf fell from between Pages 222 and 223 of my old book into my lap. It was very dry, but not brittle, without the slightest tear anywhere in its delicate map of veins, or damage to the several dozen points by which its edges were defined. After I’d finished those pages, which were about Charles Darwin, I returned the leaf to its place, not knowing who had put it there, or in what state of mind, and having no idea as to its future. And then, before I continued on, there came upon me a memory of graves I’ve seen of pioneers, their names and dates a lichen stain or mossy smudge, as if the elements in their persistent art had replaced one kind of writing with another. To which I answer now with the miracle that is my hand.