I should also mention the piece of orange peel that has lately become part of my walks. It’s in the street in front of a house nearby, out of the gutter but not far from the curb, away from traffic, and in a spot where no one usually parks. Its curved orange side is facing up. The peel-piece has been there undisturbed for a good many days now, and because of the damp weather, it has stayed as fresh as if it has just been dropped. My impression is that it fell from a heaven of hands, where the juice and pulp of oranges is savored by angels sublimely unaware of their innocence. Or a crow might have dropped it, a sort of rind-stone cowboy — you know how crows are. Or a child. But it all amounts to the same thing, which is, an ordinary reason is absolutely out of the question. Because nothing is ordinary. And now I wonder if it might not also be a little hatch to an underground world, with a tiny stairway leading down, down, down, to Jean Valjean’s sewers of Paris. A marker, perhaps, fallen from an unwritten book?