Adjacent to the dialogue appear farm workers and laborers – Black, White, Indian, and Hispanic – a young woman of focal beauty named Luana, and a midnight prowler who drives a black Porsche; and always, the ubiquitous digressions of memory. Where will it lead? To what end? Consider: ravens, snakes, and revolutionaries, God, Devil, man, and woman all transformed into a pair of dice … roll ’em...whadaya get? The lucky seven? double-sixes? or snake-eyes? And with what consequence?
The mystery is something of a creation myth. For eventually there is a harvest: the cruel scythe of political terrorism; the blessing of woman, fruit and song, and the promise of a mystical union, for with the harvest is planted the seed of new potential … Geminga.