And we’re still staggering like oxen laden with too many wine barrels: what to do with all this time? We were little more than plants or animals ourselves, scratching in the dirt like chickens. Find, eat, find, eat. That’s enough to occupy the day. But waiting for wheat to ripen or calves to fatten, we look at the stars and feel ourselves break and spread over the next mud hut, sprinkle on the far hill and onto our ancestors’ bones. We wonder what it all means. We scrape lines in the dirt to stand for sun and moon and before you know it we’re standing in high heels or tugging at ties and worrying what our mothers think of us. Want and need aren’t food and water anymore. Only connect, yes, but with what and with whom? Wine, women, and song are recommended, but we wake up afterward. And we are grateful for Wheat Chex, fifty-year roofs, and Lycra in our pants and we say this over and over like a prayer. We write on our papyrus, drink from our jugs, whisper to our adorned lovers. As if we know what we hunt. As if we know what to gather.