Another night in Little Miami. Sirens in Sunset. Dogs bark. Rain. The dirt road is a mess. I decide I might quit smoking. The Smiths sing You just haven't earned it yet baby. Cigarette arcs in the wind. Cows in my neighbor's pasture sound like tugboats. One day I will live in the city. Backtrack. When I was 6 I was an archeologist; I excavated plastic dinosaurs. When I was 5 Mother cried in the woods behind our house on Griffin Street; her gravestone and epitaph drawn on wide rule—murder. [In the black and white flicker of an old movie reel: (I hesitate between the house and the tree line, head low, eyes up. Cold air. A ghost in the shade of clouds covering the sun.)]