Lay us near the side of our brook. We’ll listen and observe a thing burn inside, like we did. Turn again in the mud, smell the ferns, wash the ‘self’, and watch as soul sinks in. Man in a white coat wants to ask how, doesn’t matter much. He’ll be here, or not, again. Seems to us a brook is a fine place to be. It’s always about something. So we see, and we do what there is to do about the seeing until, finality.