The boy has whirled off into the sunrise. Now, on this dim morning, the house ticks; the mild air hums and trembles; squares of daylight cast mute glimmers over chair arms, over scratched floorboards and scarred books.

Outside, the sky whitens. Threads of cloud finger the Norway maples, leviathan trees, wearing their crowns like gods.

A screen door slams.

A fluster of sparrows spins upward, and falls.