I nod my head, as do you, nodding to the bubbling of the neighbor’s water garden, the neighbor who’s not nodding, not like you, not even like me, his garden barren and arid, he with his constant but unnerving nodding. He nods like no one. Or everyone. No one nods that way, and certainly not you, you who nod as do I, simple, and alone, behind the curtain of the water. We need only be identical, not alike, with no neighbors to glimpse, no one to notice the water that flows, bubbling and needlessly, between us, as one, and the neighbors, uniting us in division, the one side nodding to the other, if it must come to that, although no one would prefer it, because it’s across the water, and we are too, on this side first, then that, our gaze directed at the water, a quiet oasis, so yielding, so at peace, as we nod and rest on its banks, uncertain of a way across, less uncertain of a way down, yet carried by the currents that are neither ours nor our neighbor’s, who has only an arid garden, and we listen, needlessly, to the nodding back and forth, and its incessant bubbling just keeps bubbling.