We exclaim in the margins of books; which is to say so often it is difficult to escape what ordinary days bring. Hasn't another moon- viewing festival quietly slipped by, though we can't leave off putting different kinds of filling into skins we will make all year? What does it mean to leave or to stay, to want sweetness instead of making do? I am still asking for stories that can show the way into the dark, that can tell apart what beckons like danger and what breathes like a warm fire. A house can be restless as a mouth not done feeding itself. A house with an egg- yolk moon over it, a forest of beautiful braided trees; a chorus of waterbirds calling from one edge to another.