I have no faith in omens now appearing as they do on cereal packets and car registration plates to suggest the day’s flat plain has a gold underlay. Not even Sylvia’s black rook given sheen by rain can transform the mundane. Chop wood carry water is enough; the golden aureole of enlightenment or riches you can touch can hang on the horizon; I won’t look up. It’s possible that something breathes us in and out and even shapes terrain we wander over but what can we know of such mystery and how it speaks and when? If signs appear like Sylvia’s wet black rook or letters in the children’s soup spelling names or someone’s casual remark confirming thought you’ve entertained in private, it might be wiser to assume coincidence than believe the universe has you in mind as it expands on its million-trillion-miles-per-second elastic band ready contract and undo the big bang.