August in Indiana: a heavy moon hung over space where there was almost nothing but one big town at dead center. Grasshoppers popped under tires, the trees swelled with grackles, and I amused myself with windmills -- the solitary geometry of glint and spin, slowing then standing motionless until the sky raised its dark fist. The autumn my mother left a coldness opened . . . Beans dried to snakes' tails in the fields, and my chest filled with rust. In the snow I walked the pastures in an orange poncho my father could see from the house. Once I told him to stop waving at me. Once I said maybe I’ll just keep walking. And once I slid the poncho to the near-frozen middle of Moots Pond just to watch him run from the house barefoot and wild.