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There’s a logo on Louis: Hoist.
Leave where you lift off, cannot stay, must get away up into the foothills, to the banks of the Hatch Hatchy Reservoir.

Flap. Flap. Flutter. Float. Ooh ooh ooh ooh. Tick-tick, tappity tap tap.
Days pass, hours, minute hands wave by, gotta give it a try.

Wind your weightless way along a dusty path, step on stones, slip on loose gravel. Let glossy evergreen groves, sugar pines and silver firs keep you warm. Your stores are plenty in this dense foliage. Examine their fine needlework, textures, patterns and interlacing. Phantom robes will wrap all around you. Stay on that path, without repose, until stubs, pale gray trunks, gnarled and twisted branches weave their way alongside you and grasses dry. Snakes slither and slide across, or coil on a sunlit slab. A little hurried, but quickly hushed. You’re making progress.
Then look up: an opening. Listen: water tricking, flowing swiftly and eagerly like down feathers into a still room.

M just called and we're going to work in the garden, along the lake. Saved for the time being, by something as mundane as a bell.