There is a man at the circus who draws scarf after scarf from his sleeve. Fragile cloth, taut in his grip, bends around his fingers as he pulls, willing reluctant strips of color from some hidden place until they are waving overhead, casting shadows, catching wind, and catching eye, as onlookers lose sight in the glare ofΒ Β spotlight and color, he himself squinting. So you are with my words-- drawing, bending, and smiling blind at whatever it is you grab and sift through, like the scarf man must as he wanders the empty stadium when the crowds have gone away, kicking cans and picking up dimes as he pushes the scarves back up his sleeves until tomorrow.