We pick up what's fallen and brush off the debris. What can it give us, these brown things shed by the trees, that barely rattle in their pods? In the emergency room, the woman in a flowered duster moaned and screamed as the syringe drew up a sample of her blood. The man with a shirt piled around his neck like a scarf drowsed in a wheelchair. I can't remember who was in the car accident, and who was having spells of vertigo. The screaming woman walked outside to the lobby in her bare feet; her companions got her a soda and a bag of Doritos from the vending machine. The other man's soft white belly rose and fell, rose and fell. We kept our own quiet clocks as the afternoon slanted over the awnings. Cooling air, night far from fallen.