Just as it is, in an air of contemplation, a wind that carries discourses in its belly ("a web of sutras"), in its long pregnancy, in delivery when to consciousness deftly fitted, it is goddamned wonderful to sit on the South West side of Beacon Hill on a grassy Thursday in the season of camas, and observe primordial discontinuity displayed luxuriantly: looking out over the bridge of the eye-land to see, the island to sea, the I land to see another world, spread out, over the table, a composition in light blue and the particulars of ships, almost silhouette, counterpoint to a great freedom and openness of Springtime sea and sky, the mountains immersed in haze, inchoate young gods or Zozimoses dream-rapt, but silent and monumental, the tanker, tug, and loaded barge far back sliding down to earth-rhythm slow, and the cars, toys on Dallas Road, hurried-- and I am suspended between these rhythms, hanging my scrivenings on the line, invoking or evoked by the joyous god of demarcations and tuned resonant strings, having caught the wind in them (my laundry and my kite words here) for a joyful sail on the still steep pond of this paper's plane. And a head's turn to see, to the North, rugged character cumulus, back inland, perhaps dragging the earth for old talk, for news of forests and rivers.

Front and centre, in the air-field framed by the light errant majesty of the day, a perfect diamond-shaped brightly colored wind-kite, jiving the lives of its watchers, with twisting, sparkling color-tail above its inhibited earth-riders: now down, and their voices carry, without proximity for sense, except once, after a few failures, a female voice, the phrase, "This is not our day." But all is very rational, the lovely jewel of the ordinary.

A wide minutiae of sparkles make the strait look like blue sandpaper in the sun. The blue of the sea is its modesty. Unlike the sky, there is no clear night in which it will expose its brilliant bones, its underlife, except in fragments to glassbottom boaters, or through the glass masks of divers.

Trouble getting it up, perhaps forgetting the laws of the wind, that bloweth not, perhaps, "where it listeth," but always according to arrangements of hill, sea, sun, cloud, temperature, low-pressure zones--the guy and two females--but solved by coming up the hill near to where the Happy Man sits bare-chested, back against a ring of stones. They raise it there, far above the Happy Man's head, the kite-man soon now down the hill again, on his back in the grass, knees raised; the young women, who had been vocal and full of advice, silent--gone somewhere now that he has it up--up... wayyy up--a man fishes for dreaminess and serenity and simplicity and antinomy in agreement in the giant lake of Day, the whole precious setting: perfect kite the bait and hook; and I the surveyor, again the taut line. He makes his catch: a blue whale the vast while.

Suddenly out of the blue, a blue cop appears on a dappled mare. The cop is serious, solemn when I greet him on his motley animal, who catches into a parable by pausing to crop grass right in front of me. The cop looks funny from the back as he rocks up Beacon Hill, policeman of the blue sky riding by. And there goes the Coho, leaning forward but staying slow.

Another peaceful afternoon imprinted, big blue window on a passing train, poised a moment on the long curve by, when the tight Spring releases, and the water widens out to the bays of the earth in leisure. The gallery of windows. And the antinomies in agreement--can such a thing be? But of course it can: the opposition of thumb and fingers for grasping--not hard to grasp on a fine Spring day.

And this happy contemplation assumes the mountains a while, along for a ride on the planet's back, perhaps embroidering such quilts as the sparkles, larger and wilder now, and for all I know even the ships and the cars and all seething hives: a bookmark! between blurred spokes somehow, or the spoked benign sun inscribing arcs high-cast, and warming my watery envelope, turning me brown another year yet on this Indian earth. Long winter by, out from the dark caves. Oh God! Garçon: Yes: Another round!