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It’s like this, you leave all carriers and responsibilities at the door, lock it behind you, then go out and have a most marvelous and even miraculous adventure with sound and vision in the world. So many discoveries, as you let your body move to the music, we made sure into letting ourselves be lead And, in so far as we choose it, we do deleting too, we lead ourselves to the right DJ. To the right landscape, to the right dance floor. Today I found out Daedalus is the inventor of the dance floor! That is a delight to my myth infused soul. So is the Barjon chance by Chebi Sabha that I play from my playlists, the ones I have downloaded on the phone, because I am not getting reception right now because of the hurricane. But here is Krishna downloaded in song on my phone, I sit for a minute and let him in, this manifestation of south links to the universe, sky blue, the sky in you, and then the drums pick me up and I go outs, immediately I see a bush, white Puffballs tightly packed together in front of a perry winkle blue house, like Summersnowballs, Snowballs waiting to be turned into ice and thrown by kids. But now too delicate to even touch.

Found a shady grove by the trees, dance kicked the limbs away from the dance floor so I could dance barefoot. The limbs fell in the hurricane, come down like ruin, in the old sense of ruin, which means to rush, to Fall, but you just kick those branches back to the beat.

I learned today with the girls that Daedalus, among other things, invented the dance floor. The father of ambition invented the dance floor? It must have been so he can dance his ambitions away. Like I am today, ee cummings delphinium coming to life even as he was dying.

As I am spinning, I stepped on a leaf, reach down, pick it up, a broad heart shaped leaf, and I twirl it back-and-forth to the music, the leaf undulates in the wind and the subtle vibration in my fingertips thrills me. I pick up a second one, this one bright yellow and hold it in my other hand and I twirl around to the music. As if with sparklers, or paintbrushes. I look out at the lake through a frame made of leaves I see a brick read reflection with two white streaks in it, and It is the most beautiful thing. I take a picture. But I also think of Proost capturing it in words, as he did when he spoke of the reflection of the slate roof and a pond on swanns way. Here I am, and if Cruz did not leave me here, he at least gave me his own framework of leaves, of pages, of words, through which to magnify this image. The two white streaks now undulate back-and-forth as a wave, waves, slowly move through them.

Look down at my feet and see several small bees buzzing around. I can’t kick those away. So I will have to move this dance away. Lest I get stung, or worse, step on one.