By and large lately, the early morning and evening walks have been windless. Last night the moon was so bright I almost wished I had sunglasses. Moonlight is sunlight, you know. The smell of dry crushed leaves, even though the leaves are wet — how do you explain that? Why would you want to? By the time you’ve accomplished the task, the leaves have changed, the smell has changed, and you have changed. Haven’t you? No? Why? Are you sure? And then you discover that even not explaining is an explanation of sorts. At the kitchen window this morning. Washing out the old Revere Ware coffeepot my parents bought when I was about twelve. The fig tree. The better part of its yellowed leaves now on the ground. And other incomplete sentences. One year, when the tree was still fairly small, my mother, in the restlessness of her disease, picked off as many of the yellow leaves as she could reach. She wanted to keep things neat. When she turned her back, another fell from higher up. Laura, the leaf said, we love you. “Tell Laura I love her.” You remember the song, even if you don’t know it, or don’t think you do. “Tell Laura not to cry. My love for her will never die.” And other complete sentences.