One morning I was out with my dog, Job, walking the Martin Goodman Trail.

The waves, the wind, the monarchs, the spandex running high;

Ah, beauty, yer eternally new every time – all else dies.

An older Mediterranean skinned man with an interesting face,

In anticipation of our approach, raised his right hand,

And intuitively we high-fived, high-fived.

High five.

High five.

We’ve been randomly high-fiving each other now for a decade.

I’ve not yet heard the tone of his voice or the accent of his speech.

Nor have I ever come up with a better justification of God.

High five.

High five.