You, my uncurled companion, dream me a story while your body runs rings around mine. Don’t give me a bleak view of the moon. I am not immune to the wind. Nor are the iced highways east and west of here. Bring me a stone and let me trail behind by this evening light. Let me argue what is north and what is south, or why the fly fisherman arches away from the glittering trout. Only the heart knows the surf, the bowed dance, or an earlier version of heaven. Imagine: shadows leaning backwards, youth contained in a glance, listeners hundreds of miles away. We are at work on an unsettling song.