I amble around the neighborhood looking for sticks and stones on the ground. I take home anything that catches my attention. I study it, turn it round and round, fondle it, stare at it until my mind conjures up a narrative. These narratives can be serious, silly, nonsensical, or sad, but after years of pandemic they have grown darker and more sinister. Nothing is more mundane than these sticks and stones. Yet these scrapes are created by the same forces that create grand mountains and majestic forest. Surely my collection of litter retains valuable secrets of nature. I haven’t discovered any secrets yet, but I have developed a peculiar kind of intimacy and a new sense of belonging.

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