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Page 2 Albright Harkins is young. Around eight years. It is about nineteen forty nine. The lake and the lodge are huge. I will have to trace down time with Rusty, the gypsy farmer father, when he returns, in order to find out their names. There is no waiting while I see the high waves chopping. They live. They have thin and long white straight teeth; with long gray throats that curve out to the air. They are in the thousands dancing as chains, as links changing yet in the same family under the shadows of the clouds and the distant while the while surround- ing trees, across the utter expance, reaching up from under this wilder- ness. Big Bear Lodge. Trout and potato pancakes, Before daylight. The windows in the dining hall. High and wooden and thin all along the line. The mists black sleep stiring within the great lake from the non-colored shafts of light. Pre mortal; wonderfully different. You see the light struggling. It is saying very quietly that it has come from some place where you have never been. You can breath it, but you can't touch it. The child's heart resists trying to grab the light; it just makes him wonder. Standing on the dock the adventure is done. Though no one else knows how still the world is; the wind turns once again to sing the end of this song. After this, all will be easy. He does remember how he got to the beginning. There in the middle is what is vivid. The oar snapped in the Indian man's hands. His buffed white shirt alive in the movie with Rusty and enormous me.