The cul-de-sac is an archipelago. Each continental fragment host to another secret variant of a species thought so known. In this night, the lawn is not the lawn, but the deep rush and swell of aquamarine encircling. Our young dwell in trees, their laughter fracturable by birdsong and dragon tongue. Care should therefore be taken, for such formations are fragile and each delicate enclave, each tectonic displacement marks clear and pure on this strange map. If the field log makes note of a mystical voice, a creative heart, the turquoise amulet at her throat, the red saliva copiously lubricating the dragon’s jaw, the tiny carnelian breast of the unnested bird, will there exist any true understanding of pockets of joy, renewal, grace? Will the moon rupture the cool waters of the boulevard looping beyond? Will anyone guess or know what is contained in the scattered crash of this tidal crescent? A landscape internalized. Dense and saturated. Gush and roll of distant waves. Will the delicate displacement incite growth? Wisdom? Streaks of lush rain spilling over the megafauna? When the questions are put to her, she generously gives the long answers. A slight shift on the sofa, and a sideways smiling sigh that says she knows you’ll love everything she has to offer.