Once, in the meadow, we spied the elusive Mandarin Buttercloaked Surge. First, just the rustle of dry grass, tall as a child, gave me pause and I looked up to the sky. The clouds were still, white and fluffy as in a perfect dream. You lifted your face, wishing perchance to catch a breeze, a scent carried over the fields, but there was naught. Nothing but the baked wisp of grain on the stalk. We had made a flat spot in the wilderness and laid down a spread of cloth and wine. Your shoulder was bare and wet with kisses, but the nonexistent wind broke, and a stillness imbued our calm. We waited on the storm, but it never came, only the wry brow of a Surge who was surprised as we. He went back the way he came and we fell into a bliss.