Can you spare a few minutes to watch the clouds cast their heavy eyes on me? You can’t remember me writing this, because you’ve already died. The stirred-up world of my yard is whirling with fallen leaves. Wouldn’t you rather let the coppery lace of twilight slip through your fingers like silk? Or watch the farmers harvest after dark, giant machines illuminating the corn and the rising clouds of chaff? Or, the next day, wouldn’t you rather walk through a different field, an unkempt one—do you have fields where you are?—and gather red leaves from the maples like the opposite of a bride? It’s October, after all. No one’s taking pictures or raising a glass of champagne.