Altered echoes of order return to the shimmering rim as the search begins. Men walk mules along thin chalk lines drawn through dust. Leather boots and cracked hooves raise syncopated puffs of gray sand and red clay like a ricochet of stones skimmed across a pool. Distance doubles in heat Through the haze the river seems caught between the rocks like a wedge of broken wing from which hangs the dangling form of a dying angel. Torn tissues of roots of wing swing him from sunlight into shade like a stroboscopic pendulum of pain. Frayed strains of repeated failure suddenly snap then pull back in silent retreat. Critical consequence is evident: the initial ascent must now be made by men. They think the three days wasted, and without a sign (without a sound) prepare for their return. No one heard the splash; its spray dried in mid-air. And nobody saw the severed wing waving goodbye in the wind.