It is a great and gracious thing, the birth of a child. Yet hardly a scratch on the catchment of space and time, just one small curling precious mouth gasping for more than primaeval air. Eyes full of every tear that can be shed, lips concealing every word that through all we know of time can truly or falsely be said and a single finger pointing down all the convoluting ways of destiny. These composite eyes wheel, as we, in search of a million shattered suns that invest themselves here in this fragile flesh, conduit of a universal pulse, which will cool to a contracted vision of all the prime realities; this birth and beginning, this climax and continuance of that same wheel's turn. It is a great a gracious thing. It tunes and attests to all stars significance, the slow sap of sorrows and of joys.