A rock could jut beyond the coming tree, a morning glory twine and bell within that shrubby stand … There ought a patch of sky come clear, a wispy cloud upon it … Then let there be a fallen limb, a stair of fungus up its side … A scummed-over puddle … A frog … Falling feather, drifting seed … A limb that twists just so … Another trail upon our way, fresh-cut, deep-marked, past the place the feather should have fallen…
