The ancient Greeks believed a bee could be killed with an echo. Always the longing to try this haunted me not for the killing but for the echoes. I would find a canyon filled with quiet poppies and bees and with one word from me they'd drop, the bees, into the red poppies asleep. Geese crying lonely call freedom home over quiet golden marshes -- train whistles, long cross empty winter prairies -- church bells at dawn. What you don't see is that your words echo. I too can drop into the sad silent poppies.
11 October 1999