The cool gray was probably from when they took him up to her casket. Not because anyone gave a shit but because they wanted to see what he would do. Which was nothing, just like now. Do nothing while they’re expecting it and soon enough they won’t be expecting it.

Out at the edge of the pond, the heron was poised on one stick leg, neck extended and head tilted, as still as a lawn ornament. In the heron’s mind, time didn’t swirl or move; the past and the future were thoroughly blended into the present and the present was focused, like a gooseneck lamp, on the dappled bank. In the shallows were the flickerings of tiny fish, and right at the edge of the water a small delectable frog sat motionless, indistinguishable from the mud and grass as long as he didn’t blink.

The bird’s success was based on movement so slow as to be indiscernible. The frog’s was based on blending and powerful back legs that could propel him with a plop two feet out into the pond. Should the need arise.

The second time they worked in tandem had been a squirrel. Spock didn’t want to let go when Pilgrim grabbed it too, and for a moment it became a tug toy, but then it made a sound like a kitten and Spock did let go.

The third time they worked in tandem, the groundhog had been coming perilously close to the invisible fence. Pilgrim and Spock were at their stations, waiting, as he dragged his blubber back and forth between one mound of dirt and a neighboring mound of dirt.

When the groundhog finally made his mistake, they were on him, and just for an instant, before they dragged him in, the fence got involved too, vibrating through their collars in its own excitement.

The heron slept in an enormous laundry basket at the top of a tall tree. There was a certain point when it would be summoned up there by an invisible force that was both external and internal. The force was exerted at a specific moment, right before darkness settled its skirts over the pond.

He no longer looked like a sandbag. He was flat and still, but the air around him seemed animated. Joan stepped back, reached out, put the blade of the shovel on his shoulder, and pushed. Nothing, but it felt different somehow.

Light was penetrating his dark living room; it was grainy and swirling, amniotic. He felt rinsed clean and pure, like the baby with its head full of rainwater getting ready to be born.

He moved his finger and it moved.

Joan felt it more than saw it. Some subtle movement. The hand under the edge of the wineglass cupboard was awake.