There are different sorenesses in my body, lonely spots touched by a cigarette lighter. They come back to me as I lie still after a long day of hiking and querulous exploration, each sight catalogued, each quartz tapped for its hidden tune. My mind tries to be like that hawk we spotted rising and rising toward the meadow clifftop. But my muscles keep curling in on themselves, loud tubes of water full of sunburnt surfers. Why is the daylight so lonely on Twolome Meadows? The long stalks of grass are all together–root and root the same–but somehow the air touches each of us as an individual, no matter the muddy depth of our commonness. Seeds, light as dust, inhabit the grasses’ slenderness, ready to float out and grow new loneliness leaf by leaf.