In the divide meadow she told me about the man who fell on the tree from a ladder. We pulled up three leaf clovers and made them four. The ladder swung back and he began to free fall. We walked past trees that float in mid air. His family lived in Brazil, too far to call. We are at an inn with seafood and magazines. The trees float in mid-air. Over here he isn't dying, she isn't dying, just the birds call. She says this is a divine meadow. The tree goes right through him, breaking his fall. The smell of the ground is damp and giving. I say you can always make them four leaf clovers. Pull one leaf off and hold them all in your hands. Is this cheating? In the hospital they make a bowl of him. The tree is gone and he is still open. There is sun on the siding and a look of alarm. There is order in the meadow. They have to scoop out the wood chips sloshing around in the bowl. There is confusion in the meadow, she asks is this dying? All this on afternoon TV — a headlamp, a phone call, two gloves and a bowl. They are too far to call and not everyone will fit in the room. Will you find everyone? I think I am going. Pull one leaf off of another and hold them all in your hands, a small cup or bowl. We all look similar, puffs of cloud everywhere. This is where the tree falls.