Doug, there are moments when life flutters before you in
the stuttering arc of a paper plane’s descent – jagged – moments when
the gently falling finger of a child’s hand
seems to trace more than
the whiteness’s way to a rest at our feet;
these are the times, my friend, when we notice less the wind than
the way that the world is moving, curving, wrapping its way ever down-
ward-
s;
there are times when we are least likely to know that
these are times when we are most likely to be alive.
