The morning a patchwork of rainshowers, but rippled matress-springs creak in drought. I go out into it, the schnauzer straining her leash taut, huffing and sneezing scorn into the bare, dappled street. I halt to say in silence that paths may cross without brawls. Ms. Blackbeard squints at my kibble-dusted fingertips — a cloud leaps aside and I perspire beads under my too-thick jacket. We strut like two blackbirds to check on the mess of fallen damsons, but the dog must first curtsey condolences over a tire-flattened frog. Back inside at the table I return to our words, flipping them like pancakes, unbuttered, pale, every choice sticking fast. Steam curls from each sentence that dries in the cold summer kitchen. The dog a dark loaf on the couch, her wet-fur scent lingering near the pantry.
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