Ah, mom, I’m still here. Are you still reading? I imagine you are. The creekbed’s quiet again. Little minnow song, little crawdad dance. I’ve been writing in other places, other books, writing on the air. Know I’m writing. Searching for one true sentence. Well. Paint. Fashioning petroglyphs and pictographs. Finally getting to that screenplay about people running. We’re cracking ourselves up, know that. My smile an Ozark faultline. The Mississippi run backward. The Missouri. We long to see, know. Hidden cave. Topography. Throwing a vintage curveball, buckling batters’ knees. Know that. A city of light and glass. Mindful. Outstretched. Faces in cliffs, faces in the timber. We are slowly, steadily discerning. We are slowly, steadily. Deep earth springs. Various reels, spins, ballads. Carefully notated collections. Brown. Green. Blue. Maroon and tan. Building mounds. The panther, buffalo, bear, beaver. The otter, hawk, eagle. Even the spider. We had lightning in our hand out in the desert. I received the dreamcatchers. Thank you. The Little Ones. The morning light remembers everything. The song sings itself. The one thousand things. The one thousand glints. I will meet you out there. I am going long. I love