What with foresight and dancing, gypsies would seem to pass easily between worlds. The hummingbird too— only a moth with a beak— Have I ever heard it hum? Yet it's everywhere welcome, coaxed by red flowers, even sugar water, for we are devious, in our desires. And the dead, we embody them for our own purposes. I can't talk to a shadow, to an abstraction. A sun worshiper, my brother, always raising his face to it. One touch and the body roar quieted. Now, though I walk the length of the park, he is not there. He is nowhere under the sun. I want the dead but I am with the living. The tulips raise up their hands. The lunch crowd swallows me.
That night the comet could still be seen, wound in its wild mane. Earlier, an egret had stopped by the stream to clean itself of something, red bill dipping again and again into the white feathers. And before that, walking along, we became aware of a tiny, fragile skeleton at the side of the road, paws drawn up over its empty chest.