She listened with her cyclopean eye to what the umbers had sung when their baritone hues leached light from each low note. Not a linear song, but the past-present spent in the everywhen … where one might not utter what an ancestor lived, or might do tomorrow or today. Colors’ throaty spectacles plot certain unseen rhythms even cicadas fail to drown. To know a thing is to hear the drum of scent, touch the chamber of its stillness, and feel its wisdom in your fingertips, the split of your tongue, and in your toes’ faint ringing.