There is a drunk on Main Avenue, slumped in front of the Union Gospel Mission. He is dreaming of pintos the color of wine and ice, and drums that speak the names of wind. His hair hides his face, but I think I know him. Didn't he make songs people still sing in their sleep? Didn't coyotes beg him for new songs to give to the moon? Didn't he dance all night once and laugh when the women suddenly turned shy at dawn Didn't he make a song just for me, one blessed by its being sung only once? If he would lift his face I could see his eyes, see if he's singing now a soul-dissolving song. But he's all hunched over and everyone walks around him. He must still have strong magic to be so invisible. I remember him saying Even grass has a song, 'though only wind hears it.