Awakened by thunder, loud and variable in angle: heavy horizontals that strike flat the thick rotundity of the world, interspersed with incisive verticals that split the moment between the flash of light and the gray rain after. By afternoon the sun arrives and warms the wet earth—my daughter and I ride bikes in empty streets, in gentle airs. Pluck sweetness wherever you can find it, lend wings to the present moment, words to follow me through the pandemic to assemble something resembling a past. Flowers burst from a branch, budding directly, like dull stones made brilliant by wetness and sun.