No "Grand Design" marrs my mouthings with a dictator's mania for perfection. Let what clues there are assemble themselves into some workaday conclusionary attitude or not. Man's a pattern-recognition device scanning horizons alert on his hind legs for threat or profit ever since we left the high cradle of the trees. "Rock-a-bye baaay-beeÖ." We call on God like a waiter when our intuition sours. The least we expect is that He'll take away the mess we've made of our plates; slashed lobster tails, cold soup, napkin blazed in butter or blood. How many settings must we sully in our time? Small fry sizzle in the stream, bearing the emptiness of air to eat gnats; so we leap and gulp off-balance, out of our element, full of longing, blind mouths open with prayer or gossip. Job managed both, but suffered unduly because he gave a damn. I see you there; my horizon's a page edge, these words my birder's net. The best eating never flocks, but steps singly to the trap.