The memory of a scorpion bite maintains a tenacious clarity. It is a wood tick on the mind. But recalling a beautiful vista is akin to pinning a fog's wisp to a bulletin board. Some months ago I stood near the window of my bed, dresser, and no chair sized apartment in San Andres, Guatemala, and tried to burn such a vista into my memory's folds. With the aid of the window, itself framed by lemon yellow walls, I wrapped the banana’s leathery leaves, the citrus tree, the sky, the high hill falling away down the pueblos steep streets to Lago Peten Itza's shore, and the smooth slate of the lake with the wake of a boat fanning out like a feather's veins into memory. Each of these things I caressed with my eyes, one by one, and lay them into my mind as a whole and then, again, repeated the process as if I were an athlete and the scene in the window were a baseball blazing toward me at ninety miles an hour. I became one with the scene. Then, ...