I listen from the other room as slow bells ring, as you take each glass from the water washing it with the soapy canary yellow dishrag that your mother knitted for us last Christmas. And though I can't see your hands I can hear the wetness like the sound of fingers on a fogged car window, thinking about how there is a certain beauty to the atonal, a certain human quality to the arrhythmic. Like the trees outside our bedroom which grow thirty branches in every direction, or the clouds that move above them in no particular pattern. Yet each and every summer I will hear the sounds of small birds just before dawn and later see the erratic transmissions of lightning bugs. And so it is here, in this atmosphere. We wake up, we begin to push the unseen weight, we shift the glory, we do the dishes. And though the grand rhythm is not of our choosing, it seems to be our creaturely duty to show what this living sounds like when the beat is missed or even remains unheard. This is our rage and our subtle acknowledgment that we do not feel alone as much as abandoned.