A story begun.

A miniaturized tap dancer.
A resting camel.
An unsteady carousel.
Fingers, shellfish, bored gardeners.
In the longhouse converted from dwelling to storage, many loose feathers.

A stopping point: try to determine where this is happening.
A map:  somewhere near Barrington, Rhode Island.

A small war initiated between the principal actors — a socialite, a meteor.
There’s that tap dancer, struggling to understand her fate, her sudden strange deficiency.

An overarching question:
if it all means nothing, why  are these images occurring to you in this order at this moment?

The real woman shakes her dark hair after coming in from the storm.
She looks at you and says, “Are you done playing?”

Are you done playing?
You set the dancer on the camel in the longhouse.
You close the computer lid.

Yes, you say.  Yes, I am done playing,
although this felt so serious while it was happening
and it may continue for a while without me.
I may come back to learn things and find murders, rapes, pleasant evenings, calm mornings;
or there may be nothing to see when I return.
Maybe a tableau standing stock still.
Maybe crushed legs.
Maybe all will be dead

but in real life the real woman beckons
and in real life reminds me that in real life,
such tragedies happen all the time.