I sit by the window and watch a great mythological¹ bird go down in flames. In fact， it's a kite the neighborhood troublemaker² has set on fire. Twenty-one and still living at home， deciding when to cut through a screen and chop us into little pieces. "He wouldn't hurt a fly，" his mother would say， as they packed our parts into black antiseptic body bags. I explain this possibility to the garbage men. I'm trying to make friends with them， unable to understand why they leave our empty cans in the middle of the driveway， then laugh as they walk away. One says， "Another name for moving air is wind， and shade is just a very large shadow"-perhaps a nice way to make me feel less eclipsed. It's not working， it's not working. I'm scared for children yet to be abducted³， scared for the pregnant woman raped⁴ at knife point on the New Jersey⁵ Turnpike， scared for what violence does to one's life， how it squats⁶ inside the hollow heart like a dead cricket. My son and his friends found a dead cricket， coffined⁷ it in a plastic Easter egg and buried it in the backyard. It was a kind of time capsule， they explained-a surprise for some future boy archeologist， someone much happier than us， who will live during a time when trees don't look so depressed⁸， and birds and dogs don't chatter⁹ and growl¹⁰ like the chorus in an undiscovered Greek tragedy.