The idle angling of a watersnake-- loquacious and lungless through yellowing waters faded, sulfuric of a hurried traveler's Chesapeake -- through tums of evolutionary time still saunters. Politicians, as limericks tell, are of a swift and similar species; unchanging agile evil vile a Nepalese prince with an Eton smile considers the cost of suicide the price of becoming a democracy. Pelestinian flags on fallen Faisel Husseini drape the dark Dome of the Rock while he's more leisurly laid beneath it. Mourners wail until their faces congeal to unfeatured unsculpted stone, blunted as snakes' in a pit. Chinese warships in a watery ring lazily braid to enclose the pale clarity and newsworthy brattle of independently little Taiwan. Would cobras or roses be roses or cobras if they could be persuaded to choose? Another day, another hour goes cold-soldered to the chain. State Street bagpipes and banners play old Joe Moakley to rest; dead as he'd lived, paraded, by cries and high casuistry followed, down to the crypt and the Beantown dirt he lies interred with the rest, another day snaked to the flow. "All change as they die," is the evolutionist's cry, "and all ways wander unlost toward the one wild Great Way. Each creature encircled beneath the infinite 'Ifs' of the sky is trapped in the hydra of days."