Do not expect that if your book falls open br to a certain page, that any phrase br you read will make a difference today, br or that the voices you might overhear br when the wind moves through the yellow-green br and golden tent of autumn, speak to you. br br Things ripen or go dry. Light plays on the br dark surface of the lake. Each afternoon br your shadow walks beside you on the wall, br and the days stay long and heavy underneath br the distant rumor of the harvest. One br more summer gone, br and one way or another you survive, br dull or regretful, never learning that br nothing is hidden in the obvious br changes of the world, that even the dim br reflection of the sun on tall, dry grass br is more than you will ever understand. br br And only briefly then br you touch, you see, you press against br the surface of impenetrable things.