There is a happiness to being sixty, and still in reasonable
shape, a point not unlike differentiation and its reciprocal
act of integration, where skimming along life’s fine, and
let’s face it, imaginary parabolic line, where one might be
either a point along the curve, the curve itself, the sum
of underlying events, or a skimming stone that, thrown, lifts
in flight’s impetus joy from the water’s surface but in
a moment at the next, or next plus n tangential glance, will sink.
