Lift my head to find a blue-sky afternoon and sunlight picking out the shriveled red leaves on trees just about ready to bud. April. Life in confinement has these momentary breaks, gusts of air and light in which to walk or run, with the brimming platter of Lake Michigan offering a sense of wholly convincing, wholly illusory freedom. All day from behind closed doors the muted treble of mediated voices. My daughter pounds out tunes from Hamilton; I steer in circles like water around a drain, every day. The city mantled in fog, mirage of who we used to be.