In the last month of the year, when the river doesn't return, a congregation of stones waits for the
Great Mother to appear with her maidens in their mineral skirts.
There are also a few "rain stones," with paleo-shamans eager
to raise their spirits again, peopling
the sky with schools of fish, and the river's dry bed with the feathers of migrating birds.

Joel assures his readers that a wonderful time will come
when your old men shall dream dreams, and your young
men shall see visions.

A few years ago, looking through a notch in the hills at the sun-glittering ocean that dances along
the shore, a man in a luminous yellow hat pointed at the lapis lazuli sky and said, Many people will
fly today
.  I move with the weight of my own gravity, a "slow westward motion of more than I am."