One morning the squirrels came right up to the window, their nut-stuffed faces like five-year-olds holding their breath. My neighbor smiles now, sings as he rakes the humus in his garden into small patches. Each day he splashes the new roots with water. Sometimes at night, when the sky begins to turn bluer than itself and sleep bobs its big dumb head in and out of my room, I unfold my dreams one by one, arrange them on my pillow to form a face. Yours.