Wheat swirls like water in its frame of field. The ground falls behind my heels. Chaff, gathered by the wind, returns and settles as snow. The past owns one sign in the hand language of mutes. You wave from the distance. I want to return, to follow, but this boat, the bodies of men who would have been trees, slips on the rough blade of a beach. In the swollen air I find my legs, stumble into a wilderness of words.