My breath this morning is accompanied by the sound of a cricket, or it might be a frog, as my innards croak and chirp and gurgle. And I remember tiny lakes high in the mountains, above the tree line, with granite all around, mirrors of gray skies and falling snow. Still, and so. Still, and so. And the way there was obliterated as it fell. And the frog says, croak. And the cricket says, go. Still, and so. Still, and so. As slow as a granite cathedral. Sing in, sing on, sing out. Still, and so.