He gathers himself grieving, still, in this body, the line down through generations. It is not ignorance that kept him from the doctor, but bones ringing with memory rippling years shrugs a mirror is not the other’s gaze. Allude to Rome. Consider Damascus. Line up your sentinels along the Empire waste-line of lives. But there is sun in the morning and he knows the taste of spruce tip and sap both in season. Old-fashioned ways. And there are wings whistling just beyond the reach of things man made, but never outside the circle of relations. So he gathers himself, singing.