The stone floors of Venice echoed. Quivered, from deep beneath the waters.

The orange sail captured the last of light and the 1st. It came about: oriflamme.

Grisaille retreated.

I thought I must have, I could have, been mistaken, had not seen them tall towering conifers bearing snow and mist proudly, grimly, profoundly, laced with ice crystals glittering, ghostly, advancing, browning and bending the meadow verges. I could not find them.         There were no conifers.

Young poplars and laurels winsomely embraced and farther were the aged pepper trees knobby and loose-barked, pungent, lacy, they were lacy.

Feeling a trace of cold like a vestige of memory, like a dare of deja vu, I found them again. They seemed to be the same, the women, left of the meadow.

I sought my breath, my centering, my hope, to see them, my vision wavered momentarily; I struggled to steel, to stay, to not desire too much.

I found them as I had.         They sat and stood, postured in moue, lounged and languished in stretch, smiled at 1 another.

Belgian waffles!