Things in this mirror may appear closer than they really are, the way what we’ve left behind often does. A slough; a canebrake; shell roads. A sump; failing plane trees; glass encrusted alleys. Looking back across those deltas—differences más o meno a lifetime, rounding errors a few moments or an age—questions arise with no scaffold of words. Faint music; a wind soughing beneath a bridge; all the creeks braiding into rivers. Set the chain, and I’ll pull the come-along tighter. Ratchet by ratchet, let’s see if we can draw those far mountains close.