For Caleb:
For Caleb: Late March. Windows open, the distant and irregular melody of a baby's insistent yet weary cries are dropping like pebbles into a muddy spring pond. It is a protest campaign lost into the lacy twilight of a standard-issue Tuesday, dogs barking from their fence posts and birds chirping in thorny branches nearby. He is all vowels and raw oxygen. Reminding neighbors the necessity of mother. Silence.