Through the thin wall: his palm hits the glass of his desktop. And again in frustration. “Why, why? These damn program trades." On Pandora: “You are my sweetest downfall…” ("Samson" ~ Regina Spektor, from Begin To Hope)
Under the stools at the kitchen counter: Sprout picking up crumbs off the floor, babbling to himself.
On the floor: the sun makes broken squares of gold where it falls, and the shadow of the forsythia in the window is lace across the floorboards.
And I am here, trying to hold these things together. Trying, with a thousand hopes, a hundred bigger fears; sand at the backdoor from Bean’s boots; bits of bark around the wood stove; things everywhere, always underfoot.