Quasi una fantasia under skies heavy laden with clouds the color of both sides of birch bark, skies exceeding and defining our earthly existence, the very definition of transcendence yet part and parcel of every flare and burst (sudden attack of the piano, seamless movement) of gases, of oil, of the dying albedo of an iceless arctic, of the trucks rumbling from one half-closed town to another. Sun’s low in the west, concealed by Iowa’s edge, evidenced by fire fretting the fleet of clouds outward bound over Lake Michigan. The earth is still beautiful. The piano, racing with the rain.