The lizard streaked by like a missile launched out of the hard places where the crusty lichens lay on the sun-blasted limestones, oblivious except for that frozen instant when he impaled me with his yellow eyes, captured me like a snapshot on his brain, carried me back to the wild dark places deep down inside the cool crevasses where the heat splits the rocks like rails under axes. Now I wonder whether I am still there implanted behind those yellow eyes scratching for water in the secret places that lizards know. A pinecone speaks softly of mathematics. Spirals to the left and right whisper the magic numbers to the sunflowers while pineapples applaud the secret three-fold. A nautilus acknowledges the coded message and rises to the surface.
All nature sees the simple pattern and feels the common bond.
Connected by a simple thought, numbers lean on other numbers for support. Quietly nesting on the ground, a pinecone is a most unlikely mathematician, an unsuspected philosopher, something you can count on. The dry pampa's gray Snow, dust of sixty Centuries passed. A grave beneath My trowel smells of Grief, a mother Touched her child last. In ancient time, Melancholy, the Line intersecting Present and past.