Fewer facts than a tombstone tree rings reveal. Wedding rings, too, are stingy with details, data-vague. They say nearly nothing so as to avoid telling lies like a map, which (just to have something to say) pretends to know where, exactly, water laid a hand on land. As if it happened just that once. Like all circles, a ring speaks to only itself, repeating secrets in a silent gold language. You, of course, argue: Trees aren’t conscious, not even mobile—there’s not much to know. In silence I spin my gold band over the table between us like a coin. Headless, endless, which way it pitches betrays precisely nothing. Around the spool of countable others, my mind winds one more day of marriage, rubbed thin and faint as a date in the family Bible. Greetings from a year without rain, from the second most bitter winter. Greetings from circles within circles on the surface of a lake where something small and contained once vanished.