A line, a movement, an impression: is mark-making only the privilege of people with palette and paint? The snail’s trail is (of course) silvery. But what about the hoofprints of a thousand buffalo? Or the wingbeats of bats, invisible, but mischievous, and as color-latent as any brushstroke? In the absence of built-in sonar, I rely on other apparatus to see. The camera ascertains traces of living and moving things: their gurgling, and splashing and laughing. Photoshop brings the ritual full circle: like religion, she manipulates. The challenge? Asking her to sing something true. Sometimes, enchanted by a piece of Ontario waterfront, I catch a glimpse of the chorus. It rings a while in my ears, the double-bass insisting like a Calvinist; the soprano shattering the communion glass. There are some patterns so ubiquitous, you can’t escape them. To these, my hermeneutic spirals ever back: as close as I’ll ever be to home.