Not much of a dog yet, that smudge in the distance, beyond the reach of focus. It's just an impressionist gesture, a guess. From the edge of the clearing, the farmhouse materializes, settles into wall & stone. The water, making the surface of the stream, makes reflections. So why shouldn't the dog accept limits, become a figure? Is it like the girl who sits in the hall closet and says she's not hiding? She's inside— listening without the burden of sight, letting locations release hold. Out of body, they seem lighter: her parents' voices no longer hooked to their mouths. They seem cleaner. Even the electric can opener; the sounds of children that rise from the yard, and fall; the opening window, these are no longer effects, things expected of a subject and verb. The world anyhow is too straightforward. Maybe the dog does not want to be a dog, does not want to be turned into landscape but to remain in the beginning, placeless: with the wind opening, the wind a vowel, and the stars and waters that flash, recoil, and retch unnamed as yet, unformed, unfound.