Waking up suddenly to the alarm, as I struggle to finish an impromptu speech-recitation on Alfred, Lord Tennyson to a small audience, ad-libbing the conclusion from a printout with tiny illustrations of Inuit figures and assorted available words scattered about the page: “Old man plays…with…….kite.”
As I come to, from overhead, I see the elderly Tennyson with broad-brimmed hat and long, unkempt beard, running in a large meadow to keep a kite airborne for his two sons dressed in Victorian clothes.