In Old English, Robert, your name means “bright and shining with fame,” long before fame became corrosive, fetid with rust and gritty metal. The wild geranium, Herb Robert, I find this morning sprawling across the path, shines with a redness the soul takes when it rubs arms with angels who have drunk vinegar. The geranium is horribly pungent, grows in rocky woods, has a glandular, hairy, thick stem; red, juicy and forked; its leaves deep green, sometimes ruddy. The flowers grow in pairs — purplish-red or rose — a cow’s lip color, suggesting the holy bird of the Chinese from whose flights fortunes were told providing its other name, Crane’s Bill. Still another name is Dragon’s Blood, and this morning, in the woods, I hear the leathery wings of a wounded fire-breathing monster overhead as through the oaks and hickories the sun filters, staining the leaves. At night when the moon is full, especially in October, these woods shudder with a light thrown from the Other. And the prophets of the flowers are a croaking toad and a few coppery snakes, lovely with venom.