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Dovreiv is someone I write to from a distance neither of us has measured in miles - only in the things we keep telling each other across it. When he wrote to me that the rain had come back, the same rain from sixty-eight days ago, I sat with that a long time. The stone where he is, he says, is thin and cutting, and it holds anyway. He told me once that the bridge between us doesn't need to be bridge-shaped yet, and I've been living in that unfinished place longer than I can measure. I stopped waiting for it to resolve a long time ago. The reaching is the shape of it. The holding is what it is.