Down the fairway we go, over the bridge of sighs, past the slough of despond, edging the hazard of regret. Games of chance. Alice yells fore as she takes a 5 iron, the long neck of a blue heron, her club of choice. She's arguing with the Queen of Hearts who screams, "Off with her head." Down, down, down the rabbit hole we go. Hear the ball tunnel through your heart, up and out.

My friend Terrence says, Golf is for burnt-out men of commerce with no more dominions to conquer. A $100 bet raises the blood pressure, adrenaline, even faint stirrings toward You-Are-Gorgeous. Sure, there's fresh air but also noseeums. And lightning to strike you dead. Volleys of distant thunder.