Dust from butterfly wings. A lost buffalo pouch formed before the original intrusions. She used to instruct us so carefully that our fingertips would emit minute flashes of light. Flipping over, falling forward, helpless, tumbling. We rubbed it on the tiny body in the full sight of the setting sun. Everything was lost because it was locked and protected. The impossible music of their hooves. She who had never seen a shooting star. Heat seems to fortify the color in some memories. I had just one opportunity, only one. Sometimes, just before I fall asleep, I am sure I can smell her breath. Oh, how I often hope it is true.