This squirrel digs my grave and marks it with an acorn. Years from now, when he’s forgotten all about me, a large tree will grow in my place. There might be something amiss about thanking a flower the way I’d thank a person who gave me a song or a leftover pickle, but I don’t know what to call the thing I want most to thank. To stand forever in awe of the world like a tadpole in a sink full of dishes. To take vocal lessons and grow turnips on a hill, to learn to praise, though to imagine some One to Whom the Praises Go is probably a mistake – before receiving the tablets, Moses covers his eyes, lest the Transcendent smite him down, even though the second definition of smite is to fall madly in love (hence smitten), which offers the delightful possibility of making eye contact with one’s Smiter, of kissing said Smiter on the lips, or falling asleep right on the Smiter’s breathing chest and cooking in the morning two yellow eggs.