So the Badger’s Black Brigade made good time, catching us on the windy side, scattering ashes and sunday cake to the four winds. we wound up tied to the trees by words and rock, rope and twine like angels in a skyless maze.

Then the trumpet blew and our fingers grew like blackberry and six-shooter, sending out sparks and love cubs. The Badger broke his fast and grinned like a skinned silver moon. “What’s this ’ere business?” he swore, sending bits of broken glass from his festoon.