—

You slip out of the old grand building, past the neighbours and their children, and cut across the tennis court into the trees where the walnuts wait. Here you and yours pile up found things into what you called hardly even a well constructed den, cracking nuts open in the dappled shade, swatting mosquitoes, thrilling at every good one you sort from the old. Then back on the court: music, and dance routines you invent as your own. It lives now as cypress, sage, freshly-cut grass and pear.