It is black. Black and rearing up; rounded points, pointy points. Black and matted together; plates and plains, lines and radiant circles. Black on black. Black on black on black.
Is this a mountain? Mountains? Is this the ocean—all those rearing points, that shifting? We don’t know. It wasn’t the point to know, but rather the point to move, to pick-up, to start over. We have come here, the whole lot of us. Oliver and Martha, Martin and Beth, the two Marys, Angeline alone. There are more than that. Some people go by their last names. The Caswells, the Burkes. Some people have appellations. We have a Good Doctor, an Old Mother, a Little Captain. . . .