And then we decided it was time to go back to the land; to Mother Earth and her brothers, your angry uncles and your long-lost sisters, back to the land like Crusoe, washed ashore, watching bunched grapes shrivel in the sun; where the dragonflies are large and prehistoric, large with what came or what was assumed to have come before history. This is where the wheel is broken at the cistern and the weeds of dandelion rise to over six feet tall, their star-shaped heads not yet in blossom. We know we are estranged from something to which we really belong. In consequence our guides-men, Puzzle Cause and Plausible, being the flower of the council of the province, will lead us forth, the people of these tenements: those who improvise tools to open waterworks; the hoarders and the unofficial mayors and the aldermen; who tend feral cats in the trash-strewn gorges; the vendors of radishes and the vendors of green ice; keepers of the secret aviary; those who fix the gears of elevators, returning home in dark green uniforms, drunk, long after dinner time; smokers of cigars flavored with lavender; those destroyed by radiance for cancers; that guide the giant freighters into port; the soldier envisioning a blue flare; the mother, worn down, sapped of strength; he who cracks the twisted bone that it might heal; the lathers and workers of an iron beam, that helped construct the fallen towers. We will go back to the land of the Glorious Luminary, of the Moon, of the giant nodding sunflowers; you are treasuring up more wealth; the waters, meanwhile, are rising. A miracle will burn the euphemism like a wicker effigy, leaving something better in its place: Summer Omnipotent; Summer Omnipresent; Summer Somnambulant; The Brilliant Summer.