081413 #worm Three curls of smoke while away their short lives in the broad leaves above. The breeze carries a hint of death. It says in a sigh, if you do not go home soon, you may never be able to find your way back. You prick up your ears, but you don't run away. The river itself speaks. It tells tinkling tales. It shows you how to make a perfect bowl, if you look. It demonstrates the proper use of tobacco. It sends a signal always home. It wends its way around your feet without offense. Occasionally, it bites you. It can kill. Remember that, Greh said; and disappeared. Take only what you need. Extra baubles will sink to the bottom like indiginous trout. The river says there is no deadline except the line between death and life. The other lines are spurious, too perfect--encompassed by geometry, they fail to conjure vital imperfection. Still, Him and Me and the blond boy sit and smoke. A crow flies up. A crow flies away. In that sequence alone lie fifty thousand words.