Parabola: The path of a projectile under the influence of gravity. And we arrived squalling, after deep immersion in warmth, projectiles shot into the world, tumbling end over end, caroming off walls of bent law, jolting down the rough scree of injustice, dragging the long tail of generations. We split the air, the air streaming around us, feathering up behind in colors only seen against the dark clouds of history. What drew us forward was hunger for justice, memory and longing. Also, accidents of place, conjunction of powers, and limits. How long we ascended, thrust over gravity! The arc of ambition, a certain defiance of inertia and the cost of fuel. The wide heart of goodness, the cool fire of sacrifice. History is a book of stone, open always to the chapters that will break your bones when you fall. Leap! We who are alive shall be caught up in the arc of this parabola. We shall rise and fly, somehow stay aloft against the gravity of this hour.