Rain falls in my hair and there’s a long distance call from the dead, my dead, that vanity of all men. Rain. And not voices really but numerals in the mind. Meantime music quiets in me while I count the generations. Rain. Great grandfather. His wife sobbing behind a tree. He was a wheelwright. He made coffins for children. Music quiets. As a boy I never liked mathematics. Rain this morning. I walk among apple trees. I see paradise in fallen fruit. I want to kneel down.