There’s a dictionary of moss patterns in the library of our dreams. We dream of infinity in finite space which only the sleepless physicists can find. Tree roots drip down the rocks like wet paint. There’s markings in the moss for those who want to skry. Science says there is a purpose to the way the crow flies. Forlorn the crow weeps to the waterfall,. It is a song of loss. ‘Where are you going?’, his partner Brighter than Love sings the hill. ‘Where are you now?”, Forlorn responds. There is beauty in stillness the rocks tell the world, as the water pops another vein. This will always be my home. This will never be my home. I just want to stay until I’m as old as these rocks, who hold the secret dictionaries in their bones. I just want to stay until Im as strong as the water who bore the bodies of trees. But I’m just a human being, and a terrible one at that. Incaple of scrying or creating a sentence that doesn’t cause pain.