You have packed up and left us early, Inchball, taking everything, though you will go on with nothing. We can not decry your departing this time, dear Inch; we only put on the yew and weep. Yes, you have left us too soon, for the scarred lawns are still bleached. Patterns or drab and blue, grimy white and withered ivy, golden steeple against the sky now mark your going, but green and skirted yard will welcome you when you return to our sanctum, Inchball.

We swept through behind you, fond Inch, swell-chested and sure. They doubted at first, but you never let us flounder, Inch. Swirl of summer heat, of lowly monetary battles, of drafting blue prints, of slowly rising waves, and the gay, milling mob mounting the crest of the stone-rimmed hill. You took us to the gods that were friends, with more yes and less no. The four of us, you with us, Inch, held fast to the heritages the banal would storm and rip open.

Oh, Inchball, you have gone and now we must follow. Your innate light alone will join us for that triumphant brawl. Only you, Inch, can pull us out and send us on with your louder copy call. And behind us in the woods we leave the babes, forcing them to scheme for the breath of life. It is over, dear Inch, for us, a raging finger-snap, a dream before the alarm, and we leave behind the children, timidly laughing in the bushes.