The distraction of disbelief is large. Broad as the sea from a single woman’s perch, staring out and across at only blue. The possible dissolve is not easy to strip down or shake off. Hole in the sturdy back of baby planet. Right before the eyes of all who have nurtured the communal body to carry her the distance. Shivering now in the delayed projections of freeze ahead. Or of heat. What can I possibly pen to my father today who taught me about protest? About acceptance and tolerance. It’s challenging enough to form encouraging words for my daughter, repeating what I have learned about how to treat others according to the Golden Rule. Fortunately, she understands and took to the streets last night to march with others in outrage and dissidence. Marking the poster board of her disbelief with halting words, crawling on the front hood of a stranger’s car for witness. And so the volcano wind of the unexpected blows across the sea. Onto the ocean where my father lives. A