Abstract
The pool refused the clouds in such a way that we were never angry at the pool, since it was so ripe with its own anger that our intentions were just refracted, scattered into the trees to rest there like crows huddled against the wind. Children’s toys adrift, choked with water, the miniature cabin boy glued to his master’s porthole, screaming The cherries!, The cherries! would freeze there like that forever since no one, as the storm moved in, had thought to let poor Pip out. Fury was like that: whipped to froth, without sextant, log, or chart, daring one moment of a bird’s song to fill the silence: breaking the animal’s neck. Oh, my master, my slave, my lover, come back! Your poor Pip needs you, promises to tell you all. No answer. The water just a dumb thing, and we, having turned into the wind.
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