All at once the leaves fall and a deep circle - orange touched with gold - surrounds the young maple several yards away. Given distance, all things are familiar, monuments unto the justice of attention. Wind-blown jewels, snow-crusted lilies. The soft efflorescence of your nipples under a faded t-shirt. And was it, after all, a dream - being soothed by you, coming home to a fire with you, no longer being hidden in you? The holy octopus returns, this time in the form of a woman from Washington state, whose early forays in A Course in Miracles lit her heart without ever precisely conflagrating, and I am gently warned accordingly. Snow swirls outside at ten a.m., a kind of mist, a kind of cold. The world forgets me and I go on over the miles happy and free, like a cardinal who has learned what it means to be red.