Yesterday evening held its own tiny magick. No one was around save for a passel of chickadees, a choir of frogs, and the pair of great horned owls hooting at one another. It was quiet; it felt quiet; I walked to the river. As Joan Shelley once said: "If you know what you're going to write when you sit down, don't bother." So, too, on this walk I had not a clue why I was walking so that is why I kept moving. When I arrived at the overlook above my crystalline trout hole, instead of taking a left down the well-worn summer path to the river, I took a right down a game path studded with granite mini-boulders to a balcony in the duff with a direct view of the Pasayten up the Chewuch. Sitting there on a damp boulder I tuned in to how the air moving in one languid mass was tepid around me, how wearing yoga pants and no socks in my clogs I wasn't shivering. At once my thoughts gathered on one idea: endurance as a daily practice is the anti-epic; it is, instead, durable and divergent.