This eve brewed tea with creek water and rain fell like coins in my tiny cup. R said the teapot wept, released, and smelt hot like when Fennel bakes a little in the sun. Picked a rose on the way down to steep with the tea leaves already spent. Stopped to admire a mushroom, turned round and saw a bear on the slope. Lung-heal, grandmother’s flannel, mullein all around. Lifted a little wet bell, a hollow morel, a coin that fell in my laughing cup, my fevered head out of the waterfall. Said carefully, R did, only just physical as to sense the physical; otherwise, not at all.