I used to think that a glassy, effervescent stone, dug up from the dirt and spit-shined for song, could message the moon and undress its powers to control the sea from my pockets; that a long, cylindrical whistle, carved from soft wood and painted in earth tones, could call the birds from the south and conduct their music; that a broken watch left behind by my grandfather, could turn the tides of fortune into my waiting palms. But the undulations of the ocean remain strange and ethereal without retiring to the swoops of my hand, for tilling the land where the cattle graze takes more than a rock, a whistle, a watch, and an Ohm.