Behind the rust-colored curtain, out there in the dark, the squeak of branches, lightly running their fingertips against the living room window, makes me think there’s a mouse in the house, travelling through secret tunnels in the walls, scampering and scuttling.
Rain falls hard, all at once, hitting the house, and it sounds like wind, heavy in the trees, blowing hard.
Pulling onto the highway this morning, Ivan beside me, with his new hat in his lap. He thinks two bugs, and then another, and another, have splattered onto the windshield. It’s only leaves, jumping like stuntmen from the hood of the car, where they’ve laid in wait all night, to the windshield, begging us to let them in.