Mom and baby asleep is my time. Pre-babe daily hour’s meditation still ripples its years' groove, but the static of entropy obscures in grey-matter spaces. Now I write to gather thread, to remember the dowser’s angle and make my way to the river music. To be revealed again and again, ephemeral and vital, the feeling is buried by battered consciousness. Maybe it’s the thing known by the unmediated body’s minding. Here at every moment, I follow, I forget, I follow, I follow.