It’s not for me to know but to sense. – Jim Harrison The Prodigal’s kensho was told, not shown – when he came to his senses. For most that skins the scene leaving nothing but a mental reckoning, a sermon crumb too easily swallowed. These things ought not to be so, for the younger smelled bread baking nearby and tears wet his caked face, he winced leaning against a faded splintered fence, a far country’s cry from once slept beds of ease, while the unknown tongues of swine had no translator but his father’s low whisper rattled marrow-deep in beggar’s bones: son, come home. Then the bitter taste of the older’s resentment, that if he was lucky might soften and sweeten once again to the laughter of boys.