The vast, known silences of winter daze. Days. The great creep of sun across the southern sky, appointed finger tracing her meager arc. We sit listening, resting. Why do we insist on measuring recovery in the shortest possible span of time, minutes and hours, not days or weeks? I sit beneath granite, sleep beneath it too. At night the moon rises, her light mixing with clouds to form the visible waves of a sea. We swim. We continue. We move on.