Strips of sunlight paint each tree trunk, bright lines, a gilded army. A titmouse investigates the empty birdfeeder. The baby crows fall silent. Saturday morning.

Today I will sing "Amazing Grace" at a funeral. Today I will put gas into my car and eat rhubarb pie. Today I will cup my palm over Tom's knee as we watch our son caper across the stage in a dull play.

Everything wanders into the same story.