the muck of figuring it out (will I ever?) and the zig zagging too muchness of my beloveds mucked figuring and honey bees are in peril oh my God, the African forest elephant too–the inconceivable White House fuck-upedness-stink-along the rude rot of so much human suffering. FUCK. And, the roiling sea thunder anyway. Overnight, sea turtles lay their baby turtle eggs on the beach, hundreds of them. Where the mothers walked, spirals of divets in the sand. A promise from infinity? The moss faced stones of the old mountain trail near my house–the mossed feet of trees, so quiet. The beads of sun there. People all over creation, beads of light noticing what’s good and praying. And what’s good, thank God, mending things. In my yard, a briar of old blackberries make their way up the fence through the rainy season muck.