Stories have unfolded at its feet, that were retold on hillsides, repeated in groves where people still come to meet. My shepherd is the orange tree, a clarion call in the rain. A veritable buddha, attended by the peony opening its mudra, perfectly white.

Three at a time, I pluck pawnbroker globes and bring them inside to squeeze juice. Moon juice now. Tomorrow will not see even a sliver. It will be a refugee from the hidden face waxing madness in other stories. Blackness that stirs The Raven in endless flights, maybe forgotten, all fathomless.

In this place the skirting clouds trace visions, pictographs of ancient seas. Even the doves, which have come to watch, regardless, and the placards of fruit stands with taco carts in waiting.

There will be no procession until dankness is re-imagined and the lee side of half composted leaves again freshens the breeze. With no one around to squeeze the bellows. As though the air, in warm humidity, has set the world to breathing.

Standing with my friend, and we turn leaves up towards the miracle, washing down soot from where? Perhaps drifting diesel farts, perhaps radioactive, or perspiration off the brow of great change, though no one seems to notice. In this morning's pale light a few weeds sprouted, their bravery promptly terminated. A can opener is herded back to its drawer in the kitchen. Canned mackerel are too greasy, too much infiltrated lead, too late for the celebration.

Knowledge is possible only after photosynthesis, after the stumbling accidents that follow, making hindsight a pretense of foresight, a charade of credit where none is due. But in light of the gift, all is forgiven, and its freshness a confirmation.