A slow presence passes over, darkening what it touches. White beards of milkweed nod we are blessed. You begin to pay attention to the sensor eyes of daisies, small tides at your wrists and temples, faint hammerings in the throat. Breezes rustle the same sentence over and over, and grasses speak present tense in so many tongues you wish for stillness. What is being told here defines no past; events are current only. The list you have carried of things to be done grows fat, indecipherable. You do less and less, look more and listen. Evenings, when the chatterings pause, the moon enlarges its clear stone silence.