14. And again, as when May trilliums were emerging, the youthful postmoderns found themselves in my woodland under an unhelpful light that bounced off the mat of bleached leaves and around the overly moist atmosphere, and knelt in those very leaves, mining them for what might leach of me beneath the wintered veneer, only to be crazed by the dog barks. The linear trail followed the mountain not around but directly up, up to the bald peak. There they gathered and dawdled, students of text and self, muscae volitantes. Flies before my eyes. After holding my breath, trying to make out words of their far-off voices but hearing only coughing from the dark, I took their route to the top of the hill. Of course I needed to know what they were doing. They had arranged themselves and blankets in a cultish circle in an opening of the trees. Stargazing, they said when I faced them, they had invented a new constellation, they claimed, by incorporating satellites, a constellation with moving parts, they claimed, though it wasn’t a good night for looking up at the sky, with the full moon and all the unwanted materials in the air.