Rain, yet the river hasn't returned. Rocks cup shallow basins of water. I find a dry rock to sit on and read: Whatever is here, that is there; Whatever is there, that is here. A fly lands for a moment, then takes off, backwards. A small airplane circles overhead with an annoying buzzz. Now I am old enough to see life from the perspective of death, when the mystery of one's being returns to a universe not yet born; where floats forever without getting wet.