they scatter, rain whip, wind whip, tail whip. we all leave in tears. hear this. no she said, here. this. i scatter my hands, dig my toes into the dirt. it figures prominently, along with trees limbs and curbs, perched outside a window a lifetime watching cars shoot onto highways. hardest adjustment, the silence. always coy with the night, large and vacant and promising. she says, hear this but i cannot listen anymore. instead, here. this. she scatters her fingers, tugs at her skirt. they all leave in shambles.