 Well, I would have been delighted to be here in any case, but as it appears, I'm the only person from District 4 who made it. I'm especially happy to be here. Okay, now. I thought a lot about which of the three poems to do, and I think this one's maybe the most fun. I'm sure there are some people out there who do go to the free concerts at Stern Grove. Yup, thought so. This is about one of those. It's called She's Not There. Taking the stage at Stern Grove, the zombies, not the somnambulate corpses that dominate movies and television these days, but the iconic British rock group, graying and crinkled but still vibrant, Cullen Blunstone's creepy tenor soaring over a rumbling bass. On the sides of the ravine, under the trees, the crowd, all t-shirts and sunscreen, applaud's old favorites, tell or no, time of the season. The air's dense, hot, the medicinal treacle of eucalyptus battling the cloying of cannabis. For a moment, it's possible to imagine the summer of love risen from its flowery grave, and I wonder who was playing here then. But the illusion lingers only briefly, dissipating like a vaguely pleasant dream. Years sift through slanting light like pollen, like the husks of last season's seeds. She's not there? None of us are. Thank you very much, Jack.