High over the eastward rolling earth I head for home. From here all's one. The floes of ice increase until the sea's the white of Gander and Gander, solid ice which melts to the south, allows the turned earth this motley of black and brown, these olive pastures speckled white and pinkening hills. I agree. I'm no less new, no less prepared to understand the peepers chiming in the bog, the drunken wag of the new lamb's tail, the blackbirds' squawk. It's time we tried again, my land and I.