Not quite midnight. My candle stutters under the half-full moon, the frightened stars. Someday in the future, people will be curious about these rituals: how we murdered them in the dead of night, strapped to beds, poison injections dripping, scientifically timed, thinking ourselves modern. And some of us, the lecturer will explain, dressed up like guards (two rows of them here, visors pushed back, batons at the ready), and some like newsmen, clambering over low rooftops with their klieg lights and cameras, and the rest of us drab, weary and defiant protesters, arm in arm, with our candles and sage and We Shall Overcome and, in this case, eagle feathers, as the accused killer (all right, he really did it) is a Native American, who (if you want the whole story) lured a girl-child to his car, raped, sodomized — go on, tell it — stripped, and flung this ten-year-old from a bridge into a gully, as if she were a beer can he’d just crushed under his heel, and left for litter. Say that part. And then, to enact our rage, to express our unspeakable horror at the ravage of our daughter, we’ll carefully poison him. The candles burn down. The counterprotesters, Christians to a man, get on their megaphone: “Ten minutes to repent! Nine more minutes or your soul will burn! Eight minutes and the Lord is your judge!” Our songs pick up as well: “We shall not, we shall not be moved,” “Gonna lay down my sword and shield,” and a Navajo chant. The current swells. Inside, a frightened, fucked-up man is being prepared for death and burial. He has requested that a medicine man with sage accompany him to his death chamber. Request denied. All right, one eagle feather, to be pinned to the sheet over his body. I link arms with the rough wool coat next to me, bow my head into a friend’s shoulder, thinking about my own rape at the hands of a rageful drunk, years ago. I don’t have words for what I’m doing here, only the smell and roar of the ocean going on and on below us: crash, smash, gotcha. And the softness of the air on my cheeks, and the sound of screaming gulls. Last week the rains finally stopped. The peach tree is in full pink flower. Earth seems to have forgiven our uncountable human sins again and opened her arms to us in spring. O pure right and wrong, how I long for you. Tell the people of the future I came here for confusion and ignorance and darkness. For the white lick of flame against the char of ash. For poison and reason and the old moon, and a stubborn idea about the innocence of things, and for the smell of candle wax dripping silently and slowly.