Where can we go? Is there a hope where we are? Over us pass galaxies, gas clouds, black holes, unfathomable light years away, beyond numbers and calculations, and there is nowhere else we can go. Sitting a couple of hours listening on the edge of autumn, listening to a fraction of the month-long migration, millions of ruby-throated hummingbirds flying south for the winter, their wings a blur, their hearts at rest beat 250 times per minute, their delicate chatter another conversation. The soul listens hard to the stones, to the birds, to what they are saying, about this wounded miracle, our wounded miracle.

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