Out of nowhere the Big Bang suddenly happened, so the story goes. In the beginning, no one was there. But suppose that it was, actually, the last fillip of an exponential event, and that this happened so fast that its end has been taken for a beginning. This untestable theory, unlike its counterpart, amusing as that may seem, rests upon observable current events.

It is either fashionable or deplorable now to decry climate change. Stir in destroyed ecosystems. Add accumulated toxins, plans for military Armageddon sprinkled with social disruption, roux of endless war sopped with a pandemic – mix thoroughly at the speed of compound capital reinvestment.

Offstage in an endless plane of salvation, occult corners persist with mutations of nonphysical realms, transmogrification of bliss, if one is still able to think. Or wish, as the world burns. The evening news doesn't quite get it.

David in the backyard is sitting everywhere. Squirrel on the fence is not part of any other world. The breeze coughs up a gust, in memory of the Bang. There's no telling when it collapses into now and ever.

In a moment to void all others, friend hummingbird hovers, suspended in timeless space. All around, the rush of traffic never ceases. The smoke of a neighbor's barbeque dissipates. Will COVID vaccinations prevent a military breakthrough? While clipping fingernails, I note aliens have shown no interest.

Consciousness arises out of the void, which is not found in any dictionary. Yet once printed, all dictionaries contain the word void. The universe is tricky.

Our widely vaunted weekends follow a Take Five beat. The pattern repeats: Odd, even. Odd, even. Cripple Creek. The telomere abandon forestalls exhaustion, Long Live The Creek! Each Creek unique.

The Goose flies straightway off the page. There is no credible story but make-believe, disbelief stretching out to the limit of a weather balloon. An explanatory bolt of lightning hasn't happened yet. In the meantime there is this game of skipping stones over by the water temple. Not the pump house, all too plebeian, but over rites of dimly remembered culture. Fleas.

The Pulgas Water Temple. Pling! The first stone makes shore, to the edge of a large rectangular reflecting pool, turquoise in the sun. Like Indian jewelry. The seams of the page glisten, beading up with dew after sundown. No doubt the next skip will carry a gnome, in accordance with the usual protocol. Visitors to the place have been known to chatter about getting stoned, getting loose as a Goose.

Italian cypress trees in rows transform the innocence of nature, reflected in green columns. Pulgas. Skipping stones. Giant steps that celebrate a channeling of wild rivers, a headband with a feather. Then the lightning strikes, illuminating beads of dew with blinding points of light.