With a single hand to my heart, I monitor its rhythm. It still works and I am surprised by this. It is a curious sensation. Because the last that I remember, I’d buried it far and deep in the center of an unknown forest. Or possibly it was a dry and arid landscape. A desert. And I think of the supreme Georgia O’Keefe, remarkable as she was. But maybe I left it somewhere else, like at the top of a mountain or at the bottom of tea cup and anyway the life of it feels like it’s been gone too long.