Skip Fox

the sibilance of the vortex on the northern

slope of the enchanted valley, etc., hissing

mad mirrors of mind, drove us cross

country, and back, sewed a ferret in our

nutsack (for a snack! or for our own dear

heart's sake, and so forth, tearing our "new

one" several more. "Pass," it said, once only

but those "s's" will echo ever. Thus the octave.

The path thereafter leads downward into the Grand

Canyon on a dying mule, an hour to sunset, time to

make whatever uncertain camp you can, contemplate

interminable nights and night interminable. Yet when

the fire goes out, you can smell the flowering of a tree and

deep into the night you can hear a humming of its roots.