Now that we’d driven halfway through the tall field that, in the dark distance, tossed much the way the sea does—wind, yes and with it, as in dream or, like a dream, an idea long- conjured: this bristling and not so sudden stoppage of time, its passing—we forgot what the point had been, why, in the first place, we set out: ……………………………………….To clear the air of something, but what? whatever the mythic telling might be of a brotherly grudge we, ourselves, scarcely prescribed to? Three- and four- letter words, each a small shadow over unlit ground, bruises on the larger bruise… and, around us, what refused to still itself was, I later learned, called fescue. Remember how deafening it was, its sway, in the moments between speaking? So that to speak, when you did, finally, you had almost …………………………to yell. Like someone calling out from shore to a swimmer unaccounted for, who’s drifted beyond the breakers.