Held together with Velcro and elastic and breathable synthetic black cloth, I clack. The moon hangs over the playing field behind a church and will not photograph. It is not a playing field, but it once was. Now my wife sees a fox there. He seems to her too skinny. When the sun comes up, kids gather on the ramp to a trailer in the lot, hidden from the high school next door, where thousands drift in and out, made to wear clear backpacks. None smoke, as we would have. The shadow of the black German shepherd has stopped following me, except in dreams. I see, in the beams that fall on the grass though the bleachers, a blue heron, curled into a ball. The light is coming but seems not to be. It hesitates, then slips across the clouds, as if to imitate itself. This should be a dangerous place, but there is no danger here. A man twists a wet cloth beside his car, where he has slept the night. Another sleeps on a picnic table that is covered with writing. Once I found a mountain cur hiding, and lifted her into my car. So gently I held her, I felt like a boy, like I’d sent a letter through falling leaves to the moon.
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