I stopped smoking, it was McClaid. From hyperventilation. Take one step you’re wafted on top of the shrubbery. You lose your hands and feet, then your head just bounces away. Except with McClaid

“Dear Mai,” I write, “All is forgiven stay there.”

Nine birds sweep down from the sky and light on the pine tree you planted last fall. The scrawny boughs crack and dip in the snow.