“Outside there is a hill. To the left, farther down the path, is a larger hill. We brought all we had and attached ourselves to each other. The hounds were silent and we broke every tether attached to the important limbs. We basked, as we usually do, and we ate, as we usually do. There is a certain kind of pleasure to knowing that what you are doing is something  that only you can see, and the simultaneous knowledge of your place in the larger scheme of things. We met, as we always meet, on the fringes and we celebrated what we had left to celebrate.”

I wish I was a poet, could wrote in fine hand 

I’d write my love a letter

One she’d long understand 

I’d send it by the water 

Where the islands overflow 

And I’d think of pretty Saro

Wherever I’d go