blankets transformed into tents looking like a lost pot's last pocking, it punctuated the hillside & transported crayola back to the beginning of her beginnings here in these streams filled w/her eye cups & her longing - a longing for bitterroot & the freshest thunder - she'd never forsaken the brute choir of slow blues in the early morning of that old jerusalem that was her two sisters singing to her from some unexplored delta deep w/in her body, far off & drifting further,

"we all - us three - will ride"