Say that you had. Down in the arroyo, the sediment veins. Say that you had and gone, that the course was not the same when you left, or when you entered. Born again, bought and sold again like the dove. All hope. The days arched above and below; the shock of recoil, lined up one by one. It is the season of fire. It is the season of nothing in particular. Such as: that screen, that odour of the wind that brings with it smoke and nothing in particular. Layered rock upon rock in the opal of fire. Such as: Kinglake, Niagara. If you were to walk, as they did, from rim to rim, canyoning beneath the basalt, further than all the hours of sleep. And turn: The river, o silt. O—the trapper. The fief.