There’s a wildness to living, as to dying. There’s a letting go and a letting in that is not decay, is not the destruction of the body but a liberation of it. These red ants that criss-cross my checkerboard sneakers follow an invisible trenchline with their licorice antennae. They know only whatever the first ant has declared, the disposable scout who responded only to her own hunger and sense of adventure, sliding down a rainy leaf, shouldering through untold crumbles of sand. Her wildness set the pattern. The sun lays down on the earth, fiery and sleepy, and the earth responds with these lightest fibery blades of grass and their invisible seeds, sprouting and flying everywhere until the air is dim with fertility. Somewhere in me, I realize, as the Pacific lumps into a passive purple as plain as grape juice, there is an invisible seed seeking its adventure; a seed wanting to take off with wild glee from Pt. Reyes and jetstream down the sinuous coastline to the Andes and sprout there among Mayan gods and bitterness. I close my eyes and imagine myself upraised and sacrificed among alien peoples, my grin tight against my teeth.