I feel, as though there is no possibility of knowing another, so long as we hold that we are others. We yearn to crawl under each other's skin, but presume that we are apart. What we have in common: Our bodies know how to be soil. We know how to rot, and we are disturbed being away from home for so long. We are pieces of clay brought screaming into the light and made to look at ourselves, to watch our own motion in horror. Our bones want to be silt, at the bottom of a flowing river, to be sand churned by waves un-endingly, to return to the rhythmic motion of our mother, to the womb of greater being. I want to ask the trees how they do this -- how they stand, and at the same time, how they sing to the sky with graceful harmony on the theme of the earth below. They do not make two or three. I want to ask them this but I cannot comprehend the semiotics of wood.