Wide Open Spaces In my heart I do not have to not waste paper when I write to you from the Big Sky down to a pinpoint and then out to circle the equator. An egg‐timer in your bedsit trickles powdery sand, grain by grain, like you and me on Porth Mawr, the beach, touched by ocean, stopwatch the waves. In my heart it all happens at once. Don't know why I break it down.