Years ago, one night when I was sad, I asked for a sign; I’ve forgotten why. All I remember now is that two deer stepped onto the beach below: their hooves clinked when they crossed the shale, and when they walked up the beach, their hoof prints filled with seawater. Each pool held a moon. I sat on that rock and tried to understand what it meant. The stink of kelp floated closer; coarse fronds washed back and forth while the sea breathed below me. Now I know it wasn’t a sign. It was just thirty or forty holes, shining.