Prologue

Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the amber beams of a quiet, unassuming bookstore. Part quiet refuge, part mediocre coffee shop, the space smelled faintly of old paper and over-roasted espresso. Five friends wandered through an exhibition of pictorial poems mounted along its timber walls.

Jack stopped at one of the framed pieces and leaned toward the signature. "Any idea who this author is?" He glanced back at the others. "I’ve never heard of the dude."

Juanita offered a dismissive wave of her hand, her gaze already drifting toward the chalkboard coffee menu behind the counter. "Hmm? Not really. Does it even matter?" She shrugged nonchalantly, shifting her weight. "Probably just another literary dilettante—one more voice lost in the crowd."

Ella stepped closer to the artwork and studied its combination of words and images. "Judging from the work, I’d guess the poet was male. At least most of the time." She paused. "But does that matter either?"

Jack gave a polite, quiet smile, his initial inquisitiveness waning into mild contemplation. "Not truly, no. I merely had a flickering curiosity. A desire to peg the poet, I suppose."

Silence settled over the group for a moment, punctuated only by the low hum of the espresso machine. Ella moved farther along the wall. Then she stopped. "This one is interesting." She leaned toward a pictorial poem filled with fractured images and wistful phrases. "The language feels distinctly North American. Maybe late twentieth century." She studied it another moment. "Some of this is actually pretty good."

Juanita's mouth curled into a mischievous smirk. "¡Ay, Dios! Haven’t we had enough literary cowboys? They ride into town, kick up some dust, quote Whitman, and act as if they invented the frontier."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Literary cowboys?"

"You know the type." She made an exaggerated gesture, as though twirling an invisible lasso. "Big ideas. Bigger egos. Always riding off toward the next metaphor."

Ella laughed. "That's a little unfair."

"Hold on a second," Shu said, his voice low and steady as he stepped forward. "Maybe we should look before we judge." His voice was quiet, but it cut through the banter. "Forget the author for a moment. Forget where he came from, when he lived, even whether he was a he." He gestured toward the far end of the exhibition.

"Spend a little time and look at the work." The others followed his gaze. Shu continued, "The interesting question isn't who wrote these poems." He stepped toward the next display. "Instead, it's how we interact with them." That silenced his friends for a moment.

Juanita let out a dramatic sigh, though her gaze was already wandering toward the next display. "Okay, but patience is definitely not my forte..."