A scruffy summer country fair, humid dust stirring. The gypsy man with a walk like dance said, “You want to ride, little girl?” My legs stuck out straight as sticks on the back of the elephant — skin the leather of work gloves broken in, heart bigger than my whole head. The large slow lope moved my hips in a figure eight. The man said, “You like that, yes?” I nodded, holding on — I was afraid and did not want to stop. Nothing stops the elephant of my dreams. Riding over the hill, and down, and on, and on.