The washing machine's energetics in the other room set the window at my elbow rattling. Silenced by a fingertip touch, a laying on of hands, my hands, drawing the complaint from the glass. Outside, light and dark stand in stark opposition but the dark is all surface and the breeze pushes it around over the green like a plaything. Nothing is lessened by its touch. Small yellow butterflies rise from the leaves like bits of sunshine broken free.