nce out off turf, upon a turbulent and effulgent surface of time, from the crowds of bubbles at the foot of waterfalls-- from extravaganzas of bubbles and bonanzas of bubbles-- from refreshing, heady, cold, excellency orgies, exigencies, religioncies of bubbles where falling water cashes in, the hem of a waterfall, ions at the feet of Mrs. Water-mountain sheet--

One whole bubble broke whole free from the masses, Stood; and tumbled, whirled a minuteful in the gleeful spree.

It was sunny summer morning over and under the billion sunny winks and ecstasies of billions of bursting and birthing bubbles. What could be more fun than these masses of silver, white, and sun-yellow winking, sparkling, dancing, forking, climbing-all-over-each-other bubbles?

In the bubble-crowd where multiplicities bliss out bubble-blessings. But hey, this bubble--a large one, about a foot across--somehow had been tossed free-- it held aloft! in the wind of squashed and squandered freshness tumbled up from glee off and from the bubble-mass-revel "who" lifts the hearts of all creatures who know the magic power-spot at the foot of every waterfall. A cashing in; a place of delivery. A superb place to give birth.

At the foot of mother waterfall! The bubble tumbled aloft in a whirl--over sparkle-clusters, where pop a thousand wildercorks from a thousand wilderbottles- ludic vintages, joy, exuberance, exhilaration--and then received its toss, out onto the summer morning. It loomed beyond the spectacle new-- and because with its journey that alofted it downriver, the roar of the waterfall grew gradually less, this one bubble by this became for the first time aware of the roar at all--hitherto it had been grounded in roar. Have you ever been in a situation in which the ground under your feet starts to roar?

Back at its birthing room, the bubble heard, diminishing, the word, the bold, complete soar of roaring blisses, absolvings, delights, sufficiency--why would any bubble wish to leave? But if this leaving was the cashing of a wish--and where water falls is a perfect place for cashing wishes-- the bubble didn't know it; it was round and pure, its heart a ping! And it certainly did not long to return to this birthplace of circles and orbs, but was indeed lured out by the summer morning and ecstatic silences it seemed to hear far beyond the roaring and rushing.

Silence. And the lens/sense of a delicate spirit of leisure. A class of leisure. Dark-blue ecstasy of distance out in the early morning land, off past both banks of the river, now carrying only here and there individual bubbles like skiffs, and sniffing, curious quick travellers--little quickdomes swift and in glee take water-journeys, singly and in clusters, small domes and large. When they popped, it was the clean, small, full joy of holding ecstasy giving way to the joy of releasing it.

The bubble was in-lumed. Sun-filled. There was the sun now, topping horizons. Swiftness was all around, and, if such a thing can be, and of course it can, and is: a wild straight line--a plumb, in the deepest of wells in an hour of time with no floor, no ceiling, catching timelessness, balancing eternity like a ball on a seal's nose, as a long, wildly tranquil arrow all the way from the sun to the bottom of the well, and all over the entire land, and pulling wild clean air out of itself in the color-fizzes of all wild air's minutiae, the implicate multiplicate universe of all breathing effervescence-snapping things.

Somewhere the uncorkscrewing luminous morning exhaust from cars and trailer-trucks in every city when the sun flees out long sprees splaying stretched geometries and sharp shadows into sunlit street-stories titled red in the drench--when the sun wheels in like a tiger not from above but up at the far end of that old East-West road. The everlasting oxygen of every forest, tumbling swiftly or as silently as the souls of many morning lions spooky gold out over soaked grass fields, down into dells of mist! The sun broke open the morning air everywhere like a fruit. Popped the multiluminous corks of the air! An order of jubilation now the bubble's old limen of silence raised to take under, until it could take and examine the silences like a Rajah's coutourier might draw many cloths in a bazaar over sensual hands, or a connoisseur of delicate wines or knotholes may cup the fizzog-eye, the sag eye, with words by a tongue well keened on the whetstone of tongues.

We know that in this hour we can catch the fizzing fountains of the scintillate tranquillities and see them turned inside out into the language of our tale forever. All tales are implicate here. At any moment jubilance shines in the dangling rings of forms, the long linked rings, snatched out of the very laughing stuff of jubilation. Here, thought the bubble, is another waterfall-foot. Here is elation, jubilance-- and yet upright and striding serenity, pure as light commanded exactly as the land commands river-water, into inner curves of outer images by an elastic intermolecular tension-network of water.

The finesse of the air tantalized the bubble into elastical changes of shape: oblonging drafted it, ablating broke time-barriers with it. Did the bubble know that it now communed, was now continuous with all blade edges and pinpoints?