E. B. White in “The Ring of Time” says, “Under the bright lights of the finished show, a performer need only reflect the electric candle power that is directed upon him; but in the dark and dirty old training rings and in the makeshift cages, whatever light is generated, whatever excitement, whatever beauty, must come from original sources—from internal fires of professional hunger and delight, from the exuberance and gravity of youth. It is the difference between planetary light and the combustion of stars.”

All we can hope to teach, I think, is what to aspire to and, perhaps, what standard to hold ourselves to. E. B. White taking on a task that he acknowledges will be too great for him, the poet who believes he can capture a frightened bird because he will accept no less of himself, the writer sitting patiently on her sled waiting for snow, Annie Dillard staring through her papered-over windows into the forest of imagination, Virginia Woolf in her sodden wool coat with its roomy pockets.

But for now, the ducks are tucked close in their shed, with its mounds of clean scattered straw and its red bulb sending out a beacon of warmth to the weasel, who believes as strongly as a poet.

What You Seek Is Seeking You

You gotta take the dog,” Nathan insisted over the phone. “Don’t you remember how much you love the dog?”

“I admired the dog,” Stephen said. “Totally different thing.”

Aiko had once caught a squirrel and then let it go in a mind-blowing act of canine chivalry. Stephen, visiting, had seen the whole thing from his brother’s deck: The Lab ambling through the garden, her stomach swinging from side to side, sniffing thoughtfully at clumps of flowers and freshening up her scent trail. Across the yard a squirrel paused upside down at the base of a tree, its tail pulsing. Suddenly, the dog made her move; the squirrel twisted feverishly back and forth and then gave up, hanging limply from Aiko’s mouth, eyes bright, waiting for what would come next.

“I never told you this before,” Stephen said, “but Melissa told her to kill it. She throws open the bedroom window and goes, Fucking kill it, you mutt.” Melissa was Nathan’s wife, tall and erratic, an elementary-school teacher who was constantly saying and doing things you didn’t want associated with children.

“Oh my God!” Nathan murmured, appalled. “Isn’t that exactly what I’ve been saying?”

Stephen knew where this was heading. If he didn’t agree to take their dog, he was going to have to listen once again to Nathan’s circuitous explanation of why he had been having sex with the woman who did their taxes.