One Time the Great Spirit Moved Over North Carolina in the Shape of an Exquisite Ballet Andy and Barney are dancing in a field of green grass and sunlight. That doesn't sound like much: "green grass and sunlight." But trust me. It is—really—and lovely. The grass up to their knees waves like a waterbed whenever one leaps past. Stuff flies out of it: little orange things with wings, white puffs, pinholes of no color rise from the green streaming blades. And the sun, going down as it is sunset, veils the frame in a golden hue and glows. They look happy, young, and well here dancing their Dance of Grass and Sun, of Uniforms Pressed and Tan. One arm reaches to a cloud passing over, one foot springs off the earth, stag-like. Do you need to know exactly who Andy and Barney are? No, but I will tell you they are policemen, from a town where policemen are so full of weighty grace, they take to the air like trout hauled up on a silver hook that minds its time as quiet as a burnished, bulletless gun. Jennifer L. Knox before or more