Apprehensive, she pushed open the door to take a final look, to check Earth as far as she could see, to measure, to see if gods she held were less than perfect. This was her world. Terror she found was in the measurement, in the time she had spent exploring dividend’s possibilities, market’s surge, a late movie thought more boisterous than life itself, someone’s divorce, chicanery and outright theft, and an election all too soon winked at. It came at her, swift thought: our feet are caught in place: we are sucked into loam and hardpan and left for all of this rock; we are locked up tighter than grip of stable Earth’s 17-degree axis. Escape is not here, or atonement for us. She kept saying “we,” kept herself aligned in that rare and human confederacy. There was assessment and agreement not known about; at that moment, in one half-held breath, hoe in hand, eyes gone to marble, a gaunt Filipino suddenly apprehends a minor shift in Earth’s crust. It is the awed way she would know a tilt at a pinball machine. Beyond him, her, momentous Krakatoa, an island yet, proves to be imaginative again at the foot of history, and is no longer breathless. And deeper yet, farther away, thought to be buried out there in fluffed accountabilities of Time, one long horse-tailed, red-eyed, incomputable comet picks up a little bit of left hand English, just for the hell of it.