Teetering on the shoulders of native lands, gazing into murky remnants of Bonneville blue to the red cliffs and sloping pine skirts of the horizon, progress seems distant, yet imminent, in merciful inversion fissures projecting slices of radiance to valley floors. Rising to touch the wingtips of mountain bluebirds, the margins ascend layers of latter-day yard goods — knitted with iron rods and strings from fallen angels, patriarchy, and stifling — beginning to unravel and shred where hems trail 125 years past. At the crease, an early equinox slowly unfolds, welcomes all sides to receive the sun, shake off noxiousness, exhale admissions, smash the Champagne against the repaired hull, give every voice a flute full, lick away the salt, let loose the anchor ropes, prepare to embark.