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The sun's shattered yoke strikes windows hung with yesterday's elusive weather: ivory cool of morning fog, ivory heat of afternoon, the room a concave opalescence resembling only by coincidence a knucklebone raised after twenty years from a forest floor of fallen leaves glossy and sweated with dew, a bone no larger than the Bevelhebber's cigarette ash dropped to the polished mahogany conference table as he raises his shot glass to surviving confederates, to villages vanished from a puckered map no longer taped to a wall where the neighboring sea parched to small islands. Viewed at the proper angle, the eye socket's scoop is only a small nest from which a sky-gray egg simply disappeared overnight, and what does it matter whose ebony noose uncoiled through the bush where what didn't happen happened: the American plane dropping south under its own country's radar to unlock and unload its glittering not-there cache of AK-47s in a clearing too narrow for its wings to rescale the forest in rising, a whole village of men and women and children directed to hold down the tail of the small plane which for twelve minutes did not exist as the pilot-who-wasn't faced into the sky, gunning the engines to slingshot his way clear of incident, those impossibly outsized trees. What can't she see from this view: forest floors where dusk clocks to lace bone and earth and absent air, what an electric fan slowly rotates through displays at a museum she'll never visit, through shelves of apothecary bottles, colonial glass dusted and stoppered with thumbs of new cork, through iron balls and chains labeled into history as someone else's failing, the preserved signage of rust insisting violence is a wand held in outsiders' long-crumbled hands, not a baton, not the one passed to her now, mid-race, as she keeps her eye to the tape of the finishing line and her own personal best, even as the clouds above her clear from a day-moon's smudged fingerprint, a small stain of ash ground to the boot heel of some distant, anonymous sky.