Agios Giorgios On the hillside with our goats. Below us, at the end of a crisscross path through spiky bushes and dry thorns, the defunct monastery we’ve been calling home for a while, squatting among ledges of rock. And the shore, and sunlit clouds letting down their hair in the storybook smooth mirror mirror of the bluest sea. A ship, too far away to hear, rounds the cape. From where we sit it seems to sail through the open bell tower of the homely white church of Agios Giorgios, its long wake a thread passing through the eye of a needle. Earth stitched to sky, sky stitched to sea, all of a piece, all stuff from old stars. Every thing is the bequest of dying stars, stars we carry still, transformed, in the syndicate of elements from which oceans and bacteria and ourselves are made. All of a piece for a moment while the bells pin roses to our silence, before we re-invent I am, you were, they will be, only a passing ship.
	by Joe Smith