The end finds him in piney woods on a 

kindred trail of copper earth tamped by

 his many quests. Marbled with sun, it

 stretches before him like the neck of a 

giraffe, attenuate till, at last, it’s 

shrouded in trees.  And in their 

odysseys between umbel and raceme, 

green metallic bees assemble for his 

passing; a Boisduval’s blue readies its 

wings to shepherd him through the

 arrowleaf; and distant dogs whine in 

their yards, a dirge for one much closer, 

reclined inside diagonal gloom of a 

bough canceling his path. Incredulous, I 

ask, ‘Since when, old friend,

are you ever ready to leave?’