I could hear them from the kitchen, speaking as if
something important had happened.

I was washing the pears in cool water, cutting
the bruises from them.
From my place at the sink, I could hear

a jet buzz hazily overhead, a vacuum

start up next door, the click,
click between shots.

'Mary, step back from the camera.'

There was a softness to his voice
but no fondness, no hurry in it.

There was the faint sound of walnuts
dropped by crows onto the street, a brush
of windchime from the porch—

Windows around me everywhere half-open—
My skin alive with the pitch.