In town, heat rises from the cracked pavements like steam. It melts the flesh of the lowly ones who roam in search of something to alleviate their tawdry woes. Travelling away from them, I leave behind the tangled lives of the masses and give myself to the trees, fields, and everything that’s the opposite of man. With the sun on my face, the world isn’t an ashtray, but a slice of fried gold, and I eat it the way night eats day. The heat pours out of me. I am a mini-sun. A ball of fire, dimming, shining. Dimming again. The fire’s beneath the surface. All you see is the steam. But not the kind rising beneath footsteps down aimless sidewalks. A different kind, born out of the wish to make seen what is hidden. Swatting dust from my eyes, I travel on the wings of butterflies down grassy pathways to a clearing where no one has ever found me. My seed is in the soil, soil blanketed with twigs and old obsessions. The leaves of the trees know my love. They’ve listened to my musings for years.