As the roots of the great sugar pine probed the brain in Hyram Pratt's severed head he was thinking: I need not stay here. Between lofty branches he observed the phases of the moon and the circuit of stars around Polaris.
It is time.
A dust devil tickled his ribs and lifted him from the earth.
His lucid shadow traversed the face of the moon.
*
Leah shivered. Someone had walked across her grave.
The hoot owl summoned his woodland mate.
In the bedroll beside her Artie argued Talmud in his sleep. His slumber was an enormous beard. Hassidic, black. Profound.
She kissed his bald spot. My special Jew.
Morning dew collected on the Indian.
"What time is it?" He asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Oh, Darling. We have all the time in the world."
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