THE LANGUAGE OF REEDS On that day, the eyes of the sky were open to each of his sins and uncertainties. The night before, drowning in drink, he called out the names of all who had ever loved him, begged for a bigger, longer talk with the gods of time. He found him self kneeling by the side of a near-hidden spring (just a rivulet really), praying that the wind might translate the language of reeds and water. When the wind refused, he stood straight and tall, looked for a stone, a throwing stone. Once found, he tossed it in the spring, waved goodbye to all...all.