On our anniversary, many years include. A sighting of many indications past a door or window settles in our view. Muting single adjectives for the fine sentence that says certain words on a bridge, we mark the day. The day invites a child and casts a doubt on doubt itself. This is a strange winter place to start a light action, yet the passing river is advice, dancing pigeons are advice, and words are where we meet. Not the only place, and not the only diction, but we take the touches as they come. Process is mutation, or something like that. We will murmur along the route of feeling, in the snow of feeling, in the field of feeling, in feeling all its own. Human as trek and water and will and when, we are transitory, maybe, but not at this moment. We stay true, in our odd imperial ways, to the slanting deference of our unapology.