The hawk is circling a sky the color of wet newspapers. All over town the goldenrod is going to seed, and the bees turn lazy with the lack of flowers. Even so the hunger persists. Look around. The nests in the trees are suddenly obvious. The sand confirms the animals. I think of you not thinking of me. I find the last good berry in the center of a bush. The hawk is farther off now, but the river keeps sliding through the middle of this field, draining a place that is somewhere full.