 Okay. Hello. Thanks for coming. It's good to be here. And thank you, Jack. The poem that I'm going to read was inspired by a NPR radio report that I read and also a photograph that I saw several years ago. It's called Dolphin Report. The experimenters are proud of their discovery. Dolphins not only have a unique whistle, a sound, a song, they can recognize the signature sound of any dolphin they have ever known. The experimenters arrive at this conclusion by playing recordings of dolphins to dolphins in captivity who were at one time in close proximity. They monitor the dolphin's reactions, swimming more quickly around their enclosure, repeatedly responding to the calls with their own songs, circling, searching, long, elegant noses sliding up against the glass. Imagine you hear the voice of a lost friend, that distinct timber of a loved one who's been missing, perhaps now found. But there's no one there. It's just an experiment. The experimenters do not interpret the impact of their procedures. But the dolphins do. A potty, a pod of these large, body, beautiful swimmers witness the deep water horizon's disaster, leaping in air as one to see the ocean on fire. What did they report? There is a curious species here, lives on land, but can swim, only recognizes one song.