Gauzy strips of high cloud let the lovers’ moon tease as Venus lies distant in the late night of a new season. Mars receded weeks ago, having altered the cosmology of this insignificant world. Coyotes howl back at fire engines answering a call out on the state four-lane. Dogs lying on decks, or sprawled on the cool concrete aprons of garages, take the world as normal, but the house is still. If the slap of a suitcase closing or a door slamming is the echo of alone, what is the sound count of goodbye? Is it human in its making, or can it be the season word buried in endless haiku about change, the death of the invisible but tangible? Only a fool believes the sound of one hand clapping can be doubled for long. Only the untried have faith in phoenixes, or any hope of rebirth.