A familiar type but unfamiliar, the leaves dance nameless in light and wind through most of a coffee. They dance when word, a name from elsewhere, slips from forgetfulness and whispers in a voice of light and wind, "Ash." An ash. The bark by itself should have told, quite apart from the leaves. This is the way of days here, so much almost known but unknown, fresh but not entirely new. Like a creature emerging, it splits a chrysalid skin, fluttering to dry wings of a common shape but patterned like glass from the uncanny valley. Like the lie of one's face flipped in a mirror, like a variation for strings played with light and wind, or a tongue that can taste only exotic nectar, spring opens, moth-like though a butterfly, its colors vividly homely, rising, casually remarked. From seams where foundations and sidewalks meet, the ghosts of years past rise too, hardly visible though dressed in rainbows. They rise, unnoticed except by birds here called "benteveo," but elsewhere "kiskadee." Benteveo—"I see you well." Spring opens and masks are coming off even here that has been relatively careful. Which of us has not wearied of care? Impatient faces lift into light and wind, a primordial need to see each other well, to see through ghosts of what the plague days have made us. Skin splits at its seam and something fresh emerges to dance among leaves. A stranger watches; foundations whisper. He sips coffee, his thin hope that an act so homely, only casually remarked, will bridge the valley between one cup and the next. Perhaps, he thinks, it will make him familiar, or make him, at least, less strange in the glass, tossing, another ghost restless in his chrysalis.