It’s all local — every concern, every accomplishment, every assault upon the earth and its inhabitants. The earth itself is a living, breathing inhabitant of something, if perhaps larger, every bit as local. The accident, the maker, the grace, the love, the flight, the substance, the imagination — all are here, and are easily and effortlessly within heart’s reach. Foul a river, poison a stream, pour filth into the air, and your very lungs and spirit bear the consequence. Love a tree — such examples are endless — and you are given everlasting life. I say everlasting, because love is beyond space and time. Where does love not reach? Travel the stars — they too are local and here in your midst — and love is there before you. Count universes on your fingertips. Which is without love? You can doubt everything, you can laugh at my simplicity, you can steal from me to the limit of your desire — but in doing so you become the fouled river. And then a child comes along and lifts you up, sees your corruption, understands it in an instant, and lifts you, lifts you, because the child is a messenger of love, as are the trees, the birds, the sky, and this very dream. And the child is not yours. The child belongs to no one. The child, too, like the wind, is what local means.