Sunday squared by stillness, hesitation, weather pitched uneasily between winter and spring. There are snowdrops in yards, a few crocuses coming, no buds on the trees. Weak sunlight wakes the brick on buildings. My wife and I take a long walk through town, criticizing houses: “Would you live here?” Our daughter sews huge-eyed dolls out of felt, one after the other, and we play with them: their names are Dally, Wyra, Robin Kessler, and Brenda. Wray’s a mermaid. It’s my sister’s birthday today. I look to the hills from whence comes my help, but Illinois hills are in short supply.