Rose stirred the grasses with her hands; Esme(e) stood quite still.
        "Well, what do you think?" Rose asked and smiled, and her smile, her smile, was an autonomous thing I could not save or conquer. I could not see what it meant for Esme(e).
Rose waited, longer than she wished, for answer, then said, "Aren't you speaking?
Won't you say?"
        "What I think?"
        "Yes, fine, fine, say it." Rose spun the drum of chance with vigor of owned impatience. Her hands were rapid in the grass.
Rose asked: "Would you? could you?"
        "Won't you say?" Rose.
        "Do you think would can become could? Is that the type we are?" Rose.
        "Oh that's no answer at all, Esme(e)!"
        "I could shake you when you get like this!"
        "Elaine says so."
        Rose caught herself close and stilled. "Of me?"
        "Of herself."
        "Impossible!" Rose turned to the meadow quickly an entrance before them. "If we went out upon it and kept going would we reach the other side? Could we? And if we're that type, should we?" Rose turned back. Her lips moved in that smile.
        Esme(e) said, "Are we?"
        Was there ever air like green water so filled and sweet with light it is? I thought I saw such once; it must have been in afternoon.

Songbirds unseen garnished meadow where Rose and Esme(e) walked.











        Rose stated, "It looks the meadow grass goes on and on forever these trees fabulous, diaphanous, and will fall before our stride don't you think? the meadow goes on and on its shape reluctant to divulge its shape dependent on our course into the meadow seeking center, possibly, or circumambulating though whether with sober intent or choice to delude only the meadow might come to know. Do you think the meadow knows? But if we go out upon it, through it, could we come to its end as well as its center? adventuring would you?"