the day grew out of our responsibility. we filled
an area we called Mesa with the elements we would
use. a campfire, roaring its pleasure in the logs
it consumed, sent a cloud of smoke to that other
place. we drank water, for pleasure. our feet were
grounded, of course, our heads in or near the
clouds. we decided we could learn a lot. a wind
swirled, that was music. the air was rich, new for
everyone. we stayed inside the picture, engulfed
with a word that we weren't about to say. the
final act would be so gentle, consummate, yet even
so proud. there would be a dalliance, seemly as
the wind. this poetry, one of us said, cannot lose
us. and there was nothing to do but agree.