“
Now reading
Deciding Where to Stop
I've put back in. Boxcars of living things have gone through me. Daily I ask forgiveness or permission. Anyone can feel how we go around and around, locking tighter into our debts till they become our names. If I kept walking, I would come the whole circumference of this lake to where I started and worry would drive me like its slave around again. But I choose to stop in Briske's yard. I sit on crabgrass where Anna's grandson is flinging crumbs to feed the birds. The motion is so similar-casting out to kill and casting out to feed. In one final shaft of sunlight the boy shimmers like gold. "Here's bread," he yells to flickers and nuthatches. ""That's what we call it. You can call it anything you want to."