The questions and the answers. Free-will blowing through the treetops. Rubber hearts balanced on the elm boughs teetering above the dried-out lochs. Consumptive skies. Hungry roads gobble up the tired feet and the hardened minds. But my mind is soft, he says. Well, my feet are exuberant, she replies. The flying buttresses of the oaks, the naves of the leafy clearings. The iron beams of the balmy air, they come and go, they rust. Return to them, return to the vast hands and the avant garde lands.
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