I fly through the woods, legs carrying mind, carrying the core that is idea. The day translucent, sun caught in the trees like a note held. We touch and there is buoyancy in this world, a slight pushing back from boundary. A pulsing. This world trembling, raw, fired and set as eyes in a horses head. The great globe of sun rises, arcs like language, setting upon all us tired and transgressed. Each morning dawn comes silent and wieldy like a blade. Voices mutter. The air still as the day it was minted. Slight smile and terrible reproach for those who first break the yolk of time; the suspension of draining out and away.