I relished your boyish whimsy: wanting, at one and the same time, to do no evil and to index everything. I snapped at a shrub to give to you, wondering if you would tell me whether it was shrouded in those same leaves of old that crown a good sauce. You guffawed and tutored me to consider man–made products: I would do well to avoid flowers and puppies. I lay in a patch of Quaker Ladies near the water as the Spring gusts garnished me with pollen. I strolled barefoot home in the mud as the rain came. You turned white when I asked the meaning of Stockton Gala Days; you produced the most delicious drops of technicolor: something in the red, green, and blue pixels of your blank screen shinning through the ensnared dew still waiting to connect technology to nature. I longed to turn you around to give you a picture of yourself, but then the moment would have been lost and somehow the algorithms that embed don’t capture it all.