You envision a man resting on his knees, hands atop the thighs, shoulders and back bowed and curved forward, head low. His eyes are closed and he only moves from his breath. Heaving upward from his chest to the ambit of his arched body. Maybe it is raining and humid. Maybe somewhere nearby a fire is going to die, and snaps as it plays with the drops, spitting little flecks of fragmented time. And maybe the grass is thick and green and as the man kneels on the ground his toes become lost among the ribbons. Then you hear, from somewhere deep inside him, a low rumble. A moan. It is guttural and reminds you of everything simple in life. The way the night is still. The way the grass is tall. The way the wings on your little back ache to stretch out their barbs. It is primal. It is known.
Archibald Crouton, who are you? Are you, as they say, lost in the wind? Are you lost, or just riding it out? Riding out a zephyr bound for that rising sun. Dancing among the pines. Drifting over the Suwannee.
I know who you are. The goddamn heart of you, anyway.