On the mountain's lips, the god sleeps. The strings of his guitar relax. He dreams of a chord that tells the depth of his inspiration. The pond ripples but gently, aware of the ducks, geese, worms, all the critters asleep in its frigid shadow. One breath follows another. The hand that reaches out is the one that knows the marks on a stone are a sign: Perhaps we never were. God and Pond are dying together; falling down and drying up; place and words forgotten, drained and abandoned before they barely began.