Each rock here has a face: inscrutable, not even looking at the water which threads through the silence in the only way silence can possibly be allowed to sing; not even looking at the clear light that flickers like each day’s votive candle—tinged blue in the mornings, washed grey or trembling gold in the lengthening afternoons. A hand carved these hollows in stone. They open their mouths lined with moss and clover, inconsequential weeds and wild- flowers, that we might write of secrets: of ways to woo a heart that has stood too long, gaping first at one side of the river, then at the other.