The middle of a warm afternoon in May. The new leaves have reached about half of their full size, and the steep end of the mountain is so green you want to shout for the sheer wonder of it. Below on the railroad tracks an east-bound freight has been stopped on a tip from someone down the line who saw a figure sitting in an open boxcar. A dark-skinned man in handcuffs is being placed in the back seat of a police van. Cars line up on both sides of the crossing as the police sort slowly through three gym bags full of personal belongings, right there on the brick sidewalk beside the station. Where is he from? What language does he speak?
A line from an obituary: He was truly an honest man and enjoyed tinkering with clocks.
He was. I knew him. A good man who shouldered a great deal of sorrow in his life, including the deaths of both his adult children.
You ain’t been blue, no, no, no.
You ain’t been blue till you’ve had that mood indigo.
We came home from shopping to find an indigo bunting — the first one we’ve seen this year — sitting on the metal table next to the door, motionless except for a slight trembling and the blinking of its eyes.