The sun is setting on a day gone grey before sunrise. A day of rags and gutters. Buckets and towels. The rain taps at the panes with the sound of a student typist. In another life, this day would be footfalls down a marble-tiled hall. Or a one-legged dove. My mind strolls its own worst neighborhoods. I think of the boys. Of that day years ago. Of our current troubles, the pending loss of our house. Because it is what I wold advise a friend to do, I take a few constructive steps. Make a phone call. Walk the dog. Shower. Babye steps. The sun, cued for the final act, makes its appearance. Everywhere choruses of leaves leap into flame.