I check in all the cupboards and shelves but cannot find a single sprinkler head. The sky is white as if it doesn’t matter anyway.

Watt on his hands and knees, procrastinating.

In the UPS drop-off store, a scented candle burns to mask the cigarette smell.

Traffic rounding the curve, a kind of threading.

The ping of a message on the iPad, Tucker schooling me in cray cray.

The microwaved leftovers are not hot, just not cold. Both lamb AND salmon. A full plate.

The funeral procession comes up flashing blue.

I can’t find that one telling of the dream about the lion.

Drinking bourbon on the sun porch, sitting at right angles.

He calls to let us know he’s arrived, and that there’s a car with Pennsylvania plates parked off the road outside the gate.