The low-slung, loose-sprung chair I sat in to tell my soul to you in your Ottawa upper room long preceded your death and dump in a double-lined bodybag plus on top a morgue sheet to complete the mound of plastic you've quickly become since selling out your ample land to Covid, the rapacious developer that keeps clearing all the woods and parks of our childhoods. Quaint I'm sure they were, my little struggles and wherefores brought to your enormous ears, elephantine in size and no less in wise rememberance. If God has a voice, it must be a choir of many parts, and when I listen for the bass your deep steadiness is what speaks straight into my hearing. Much to our surprise, death seems to be easier than what any of us thought. Is that you right now in the distant freight train drone singing that the same holds true for life?