Silence colludes with shadow, pervasive blur that underhangs archways between granite walls. Walk, look at the feet. One boot, then the other. Note how clay dries in stiff clots, sculpts frills around heavy soles. Note the monk-shaped shadow falling from boot soles heading away from the sun. Silence lasts a lifetime. Life lived beneath, burrowed under the sky. Say nothing: think only of God. The last consolation. Silence enters the body; the body does not enter silence. Beseech the Holy Spirit to haunt the chiaroscuro of soul. Watch the soup fall from the ladle into white bowls. Eat the bread. Be grateful. And for the boots that keep to the path. Grateful. Look down at the feet.