Trapped in the amber of the moment. We are. Like that line from the Vonnegut book, flies stuck in a block of rust-colored wax, blobs of polished amber. Of indeterminate proportion. Lily shaved her eyebrows off. I ate cold chicken with my fingers. The cat got the baby bunny and left it on the stoop. All night long the pitter-patter of rain like microwave popcorn popping in a bag. And sweet bird cries, occasional cars. The long swoosh of sounds like we’re somewhere very far away, the country. The distance and separation becomes so normal it’s unsettling when you do see someone. What could they want? The fawn wags her tail when she chews in our garden, she senses someone watching her from inside. Someone trapped by the window picking dead flies from the sills.