– its hot today – the little plastic flower on the sun flooded window sill, solar powered, flaps its two plastic leaves up and down, furiously.

The craters of the moon are obligingly slanted, they career headlong down the mineshafts of Quixote Canyon’s purple, puzzled shadows, diadems in their way.

The lactating, molly-coddled oysters are very much like hyroglyphs as they vault, one-“handed,” over wooden, countryside fences, from field to field, leather bound editions of “The Complete Works of William Shakespear” tucked neatly  into their pearl decorated belts.