It was not so hard believing in the end as long as it remained abstraction, shadow the wind dragged through waist-high grass, a passage like the wave some philosophers say our lives are, a body stirred from nothing to brief crescendo, then dropped into nothing once more. Each one of us will take our turn crossing that field, far from the lights of cities, nameless under nameless stars. Alone in that emptiness, the small gears of civilization dither and lock, and the older, larger gears, the ones ever-turning and ever-silent, let themselves be heard for a moment, long enough to let us know the shadow on the edge of the field is no mirage. But we are not the wind. We have a choice which direction we take. You have to stand in that field long enough to realize there is a choice. You can turn and run, but the edge of the field grows wider, claims more of your life's real estate. You can walk into the shadow early, singing a song whose words you forget as they leave your tongue and believe it is courage, not fear, marching you forward. Or you can turn, leave the field deliberately, the great notes of the gears you heard still grinding, song you will keep yourself from swaying to as you turn from the dark to find a place that sells coffee paled with milk, where you can sit in soft light and read the day's temporary news, small matters made