A quick plot of grasses-but for some cut teeth and a tongue of May Apples, an opening, like a surprised mouth in the face of day. I am past the thickets of human definition that rise from the soft ground around me, like pencils, whose green ends pitch and swing in the wind as they write what happens next. A slender iridescence in the air appears, like a hyphen between worlds, watching me with limped eyes from a single blade of grass, its wings shaped from the forgotten shadows of noon. Now it is written in the trees from which it arrived, a princess in disguise, a fairy on its way to a story meant for bedtime, forever small and bright in lovely dreams.