A friend found a discarded book of poetry on a sidewalk in San Francisco and gave it to me. It was an anthology of poems by women. One poem was by a Chinese poet some centuries back. It's night, the moon gazing from behind branches of a tree. A mother's voice describes her son’s leaving home that morning to forge his adult life. She hoped that those where he landed that night would keep an eye out for him—as she would for the young adult children of others who crossed her path.