At dawn we left the tents in response to the Poet's call. The forest sang us a song; it was the songstresses who had gone to pee among the polyepis trees that grew like a witch's hair.

Mónica Ojeda

Electric Shamans at the Festival of the Sun

—I had let it go, but this reminded me of a little collage of mine that I sold to Fabian many years ago, a tiny photograph that was very old of a white tent in a clearing next to the woods. For a minute I wanted to go back in time and snag it off the living room wall. But it's there in my memory, and Fabian, and his flat, is gone. Maybe the little tent went with him, but I won't know.