Thinking of a child soon to be born, I hunch down among 
friendly sand grains.... The sand grains love us, for they love 
whatever lives without force, a young girl who looks out over her 
life, alone, with no map, no horse, a white dress on. The sand grains 
love whatever is not rushing blindly forward—I mean the mole who 
is blinking at the door of his crumbly mole Vatican, and the salmon 
one morning senses in her gills the fragrant Oregon waters 
crashing down. Something loves even this planet abandoned 
here at the edge of the Milky Way, and loves the child who floating 
inside the Pacific of the womb, near the walls, feeling the breakers roaring.