The universe says one thing, clearly, repeatedly, refreshingly, newly, again and again, over and over, consistently, never twice, the same, in the breadth of the eons, in the stillness of silence, where birds' wings wake the wind, where movements loom the days, yet nature grows, thunderously, vastly, instantly, quietly. And one must wonder, wonderfully, how is all the silence so ?! From whence comes, and to where does, all the tropics of sound go? And the answer, like love, plays, waits, gives, and saves, tenderously, is rapt, like deer eyes, in the blanket of care, of the eternity of slow. Where not even the sun, in thermonuclear glow, patterns a pindrop, of a lightbeam, on an eardrum, of know