We slowly walk along the canyon trail. Below us, the creek roars — seems a swift-coursing vein, flowing to Ocean, where waves become waves, travel and pulse onto shores. I’ve been walking these wilds for some time, ever since having discovered them as a child. I’ve been collecting fragments — potsherds — stories of origin. I’ve stored them in a reliquary, shaped like a page that always returns to blankness. Each of the fragments appears as the syllable of a name. I’ve been arranging them for years, listening for a voice to speak — though I’ve never been able to see, as in the reflection of a stream, a face that resembles the feeling I feel as I look on the world. In what follows, I’ve re-arranged the remnants in the form of an essay, in hopes that they’ll sing together in chorus, linking things linked where links are unseen.