There were low, old hills broadly from us, I could feel them far beyond my back; in sun I might have seen them no more than deep warm green wrinkles where the sky touched down so far and old they were. But they were there, giving form, a needful thing, an essential thing, as the platform gave form to the words of the women and placed them, gave them stature and niche and frame and light and gathered their sounds, clustered them, flung them forth in beauteous cascades of revelation and avowal.
        In a way, then, unbeknownst save subtly guessed within, they were embraced though the platform seemed to hold the center of the broad and softly, slowly, undulating sea of green whose infrequent lanes and low walls passed unnoticed, only the channels and separate groves of full lobed green trees stitched the green grasses, green grains, under the wet gray sky which did not move or churn or fill its cheeks or make a sound yet existed.
        I watched them.
        From within the last parting of the dripping leafy tassels swaying suspended submarine about my shoulders, tapping my legs, I watched the women of the meadow and my hand went out unknown to me and touched the wet green pointed leaves covering me, making me 1 with them observing and completing though the women did not seem to care.