This afternoon, I started thinking about gardens, fantasizing havens and green safeties and careful quiets. I am doing my best to carry calm and openness around me like stature, like a field, like an envelopment, to make easier what can be made easier, to make more pleasant what strains others. The market, the flowers, the honey, the chocolates and orchids and mangoes and neon proclamations all in rows and piles. Abandoned walls signed in cryptic images. Shades of blue on broken brick. My lunch hour behind a camera. My devouring the scent of voices, the silhouette of wings. All goes well, and yet it will be two more days before you hear anything substantial from me: I am swimming; I am anchoring the relay; I am closing the distance in an event that is almost over. In another distance, another train passes, echoing. And echoing.