A die falls.
The sharp sound of plastic and wood
meeting the
table's hard
surface.
Unpredictable,
each event isolated by
a lack

of relationship,
not tied to a past. The die has
no purpose, no direction,
just steps in a disconnected chain,
each moment unaware of the

next.

Though thought cannot for-
see which number will face up as
the die comes to rest,
it does see pattern,
a shape to the movement.

The dance as
a whole has order,

perhaps not
the design of a governing mind,
but predictable all the

same.