He stood and then quieted, and to my surprise did not leave again. I was expected to know which way was out and through and stepped on some acorn hats and helicopters, oak tags. (What’s an oak tag?) We will be at our best here, outside the city. Hear that? That hoo-hoo-hoo? That’s a turtle-dove, dove-colored, taupe-like and tapered, with sad, knowing eyes. Or a mourning dove maybe. I forget. And that’s a maple. And that’s . . . a tree with bright fuchsia blossoms. Crepe myrtle? India myrtle? India crepe myrtle. Something. And look below your feet at the macadam. I think that’s macadam. The word sounds weird now. More black road, blue sky, green trees. That’s all there is from here on out. Wait until we get to the barn. You’ll love it there. You can set up your typewriter on an old crate and scratch your beard and look picturesque. Look how faded and vintagey everything looks around here. That huge old steering wheel. Your Levi’s. The way our hands look together on our old quilt in the hayloft. Don’t give me that look. You’ll love it here. I’m going out to pick some wildflowers. When I get back, be handling those old bridles and things. Scratch your beard. Turn to me with that sad-eyed half-smile I like so much.