In the early morning dreams we are not the man but the walking stick, steadying the gait, dug into the hard ground. A pond where we fish and fish unable to reel in again our life. Our boomerangs fly south v-patterned and one of us stopped waiting--but which? August gone autumn, so when, already, do leaves fall away? We meant instead: The Stay-Tree, the Believe-Again Grove. We cycle out into the night, watch the sky for a flock of returns, fish a lake where the forgive-fins shimmer in the late summer moonglow. No body flipping into the sidewalk, the betraying bicycle, sadistic sprinklers, we have hit the ground but only one of us is running.