Everything under heaven is in total chaos, remarked Mao, and added: the situation is excellent. Under heaven everything is gentle humidity, clouds capturing the waning sun and turning white light into color. The three of us bicycle through quiet streets, dusking from house to socially distanced house; dinner with friends in their backyard and a visit to the front yard of others where we talk while their new dog races himself in the grass, hysterical with joy. Nothing changes until everything does. I capture a bubble of chaos in my chest, like a hope, and it carries me lofting home.