As I was going through them, the cirrus and the nimbostratus, with its white steps like the descending marble ones in my dream last night, I tried to imagine all the forms vapor takes as it rises into the cold, before it is classified.

We followed the path into the ravine, while dreaming of orchids.

There’s a place to go sailing behind the mountains. They rent the boats there.

A grasshopper stares at me backward, to soothe his painter’s eye.