Tassajara Black stone basin lined with river rocks breathes sulphur at the sage, holds minnow-wheels of minerals, forms silken skin on skin. The many naked women wont meet eyes. They line the parlor stream like pampas grass, lower themselves like ripe melons into the sage-worn dirt. They bake and stretch their bodies, each sinew classic brush-stroke. My skin a dried pearl, I rest my head on a shaded river rock. I watch the grinning dragonfly smolder blue more convincing than shame. Jessamay Howell