Only a few people and three alley cats remember when the house was gray, not yellow. A pair of empty swing sets at the schoolyard rock themselves to sleep for a late-afternoon nap. A blue dog used to trot on top of little ginkgo fans confettied on the sidewalk like he showed up too late to a parade. Farther down the avenue is a baby who seems to lose her pacifier each day around seven o’clock. Tulip bulbs that a girl once planted and sprinkled with pepper flakes have all been scratched up by brave squirrels who now strut the street with tiny blistered mouths. When they chew chickadee wing in their wet, hot mouths, the alley cats become accomplices. This is her legacy. Her footprints are everywhere:

every gate is her
red mouth on fire—birds want
to speak but cannot