Ninety-five, eighty-nine, and sixty-five degrees, along with windswept clouds of yellow pine pollen. When I reached the corner stop sign, a large hairy shirtless man rolled by in his rundown pickup, as casually as if he were crossing the street to get his mail. Three days. What is the name of that tall spiky flower that looks like a hollyhock but has different leaves? I never carry a mobile phone. I don’t have one. I have shovels, rakes, and hoes, and a little claw-shaped cultivator for when a flowerbed wants its back scratched. A pile of sticks. Some cucumber cages. Clippers. Sweet peas. Several worn out brooms. Old jeans. Church bells. The noon whistle. And by have I mean in the lightest possible way. A ghost-having. A floral cloud-spray. A kind of graveside sparrow-singing tree-breathing seed-sprouting now-where-were-we, love? kind of way. All for the nonce, here but once, forever and never kind of way. A work that is play kind of way. And suddenly, your hand is held.