There's a butterfly making a lazy attempt to slip the invisible window, antennae turned back toward the pond. It pushes the whole of its throax against the glass.

Daily, Mama complains, The leaves have not changed colors yet! The leaves have not changed colors! The words fly around in our sleep. She wants to clear out, but the problem with emptiness is that it can't be left behind.

I want to yell, too. But resting the bone of my head against the cold of the window pane, I look out toward the macadam.