This wound of being human— we are blemished and imperfect. Quick to anger, slow to heal. For some, it’s guns before grace, hollow prayers following the pain; while others drag the mind’s river for the body of evidence that can free us from the madness. Hear the sirens cry and angels sing. Witness new joys and losses blossom. Remember to let the flowers rise but pull away the weeds before they grow taller than us on this spinning ball of eroding and beautiful blue.