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There
’
s
the
day
John
Huff
fell
off
the
edge
of
the
world
,
gone
;
why
isn
’
t
it
darker
than
the
others
?
Where
,
where
all
the
summer
dogs
leaping
like
dolphins
in
the
wind
-
braided
and
unbraided
tides
of
what
?
Where
lightning
smell
of
Green
Machine
or
trolley
?
Did
the
wine
remember
?
It
did
not
!
Or
seemed
not
,
anyway
.
Somewhere
,
a
book
said
once
,
all
the
talk
ever
talked
,
all
the
songs
ever
sung
,
still
lived
,
had
vibrated
way
out
in
space
and
if
you
could
travel
to
Far
Centauri
you
could
hear
George
Washington
talking
in
his
sleep
or
Caesar
surprised
at
the
knife
in
his
back
.
So
much
for
sounds
.
What
about
light
then
?
All
things
,
once
seen
,
they
didn
’
t
just
die
,
that
couldn
’
t
be
.
It
must
be
then
that
somewhere
,
searching
the
world
,
perhaps
in
the
dripping
multiboxed
honeycombs
where
light
was
an
amber
sap
stored
by
pollen
-
fired
bees
,
or
in
the
thirty
thousand
lenses
of
the
noon
dragonfly
’
s
gemmed
skull
you
might
find
all
the
colors
and
sights
of
the
world
in
any
one
year
.
Or
pour
one
single
drop
of
this
dandelion
wine
beneath
a
microscope
and
perhaps
the
entire
world
of
July
Fourth
would
firework
out
in
Vesuvius
showers
.
This
he
would
have
to
believe
.
And
yet
.
.
.
looking
here
at
this
bottle
which
by
its
number
signalized
the
day
when
Colonel
Freeleigh
had
stumbled
and
fallen
six
feet
into
the
earth
,
Douglas
could
not
find
so
much
as
a
gram
of
dark
sediment
,
not
a
speck
of
the
great
flouring
buffalo
dust
,
not
a
flake
of
sulphur
from
the
guns
at
Shiloh
.
.
.
"
August
up
ahead
,
"
said
Douglas
.
"
Sure
.
But
the
way
things
are
going
,
there
’
ll
be
no
machines
,
no
friends
,
and
dam
few
dandelions
for
the
last
harvest
.
"
"
Doom
.
Doom
.
You
sound
like
a
funeral
bell
tolling
,
"
said
Grandfather
.
"
Talk
like
that
is
worse
than
swearing
.
I
won
’
t
wash
out
your
mouth
with
soap
,
however
.
A
thimbleful
of
dandelion
wine
is
indicated
.
Here
,
now
,
swig
it
down
.
What
’
s
it
taste
like
?
"
"
I
’
m
a
fire
-
eater
!
Whoosh
!
"
"
Now
upstairs
,
run
three
times
around
the
block
,
do
five
somersets
,
six
pushups
,
climb
two
trees
,
and
you
’
ll
be
concertmaster
instead
of
chief
mourner
.
Get
!
"
On
his
way
,
running
,
Douglas
thought
,
Four
pushups
,
one
tree
,
and
two
somersets
will
do
it
!
And
out
there
in
the
middle
of
the
first
day
of
August
just
getting
into
his
car
,
was
Bill
Forrester
,
who
shouted
he
Ir
was
going
downtown
for
some
extraordinary
ice
cream
or
other
and
would
anyone
join
him
?
So
,
not
five
minutes
later
,
jiggled
and
steamed
into
a
better
mood
,
Douglas
found
himself
stepping
in
off
the
fiery
pavements
and
moving
through
the
grotto
of
soda
-
scented
air
,
of
vanilla
freshness
at
the
drugstore
,
to
sit
at
the
snow
-
marble
fountain
with
Bill
Forrester
.
They
then
asked
for
a
recital
of
the
most
unusual
ices
and
when
the
fountain
man
said
,
"
Old
fashioned
lime
-
vanilla
ice
.
.
.
"
