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The tree that had patiently framed our view turned on us once and swelled with an issue of birds. Each orange breast too large for its spine, they threatened to drop and splatter like so many fruits. I'm frightened of birds in the first place. In Illinois they stay the right size and only come out by ones and twos, but I won't go barefoot. Remember the crack of a wing in the grass? It was warmer than grass. I still think the window kept us straight. Twice a day the light congealed, we could or couldn't see the bridge for fog. Either way was reassuring. And if someone had asked, the branch was too parochial, we knew it no? making order out of all that sky. When better dyes arrived in the wagons of entrepreneurs, the Navajo weavers knew craft and a past from nostalgia: they began on brighter rugs. At one point in the border of each, an erratic line a single stitch wide joins the outside to the pattern at the heart. On a spirit line, does the spirit come in or depart? Our birds had been eating what the rain turned up, new rain got rid of the birds. I'm thinking of you.