The way this path doth cross
the gorge, so far below us water
running. These are treetops, and
this is sky. My, my, are we not high?
I search for truth among these landed
gentry - men with suits and silver
studded heels. Finding none, I just
move on, my wicket a waste
for the holding.
A Klondike game of the well-sourced
all; enemies and friends together.
Everyone looks out, from this high
perch, just to see what it is they see.
I see Annabelle; I see me.