The ear fills with sky-sounds, the eye with cloud-motion and leaf-fall. Distances are not what we think them at all, but blessings ripe and uncountable. The glad-spent remains of the summer garden are brought to the pile. Manure is spread on the ground, each shovelful a soft aromatic reminder of childhood on the farm, a great love-pasture rimmed by plum trees and sparrows. The rudder-sea-shovel plies welcoming soil, makes amatory metal shine, brings a shout up through mast-wood to the hands and the arms. Where it ends, no one knows. The brain and the heart are wise with their cards, the show of their tell the patience of art. Sunflower seeds. Leaf-mold. The plumpness of worms. Shovel to keyboard sail our words, spider the web of our space. Computer grace. Charon, old ferryman, pass by this place.