081413 #worm Me pilots the Moth's Wing deftly under the cleft of limestone above the waterfall. He barely disturbs the queen anne's lace on the gravel bar. Of course, he had some help from Him during that landing, if you can call screaming like a ninny and clutching the console "help." But whatever. The point is, they're on the ground--half in the shallow rill of the creek, in fact--and Me's feeling a little more masculine than he is wont to feel. The sensation leaves him a little drunk, as on a robust brandy--not insensate with euphoria, but pleased. Well pleased. Him and Me disembark--Me secures the guy lines with more skill than he knew his knuckly hands possessed--and walk on down the stream, stepping from boulder to root, to low rise of gravel, to opposite bank, and then back in. Weaving, they flow with the serpentine water.