All the bloodhounds in the world touch down. Wardens come from miles around.   Last night a lazy dream, footage of a full range tossing under storm, wild zydeco wind up from the south via Hurricane Gap, leaves in the air, gullies surging, foaming brick-red— Van Gogh’s hair, sickle-cut, or General Sherman’s.   Grouse drum on hazy ridges. Down the road a place called Muses Mills. White-throated sparrows sing their whisper-song.               All the bloodhounds             in the world             can’t pin it down.