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.