[Each night, an owl cries out from the redwoods.]

Each night, an owl cries out from the redwoods. He calls, and I call back. I call, and he answers. We share the same bright moon, the same shadows, and the same fate. The possibility of discussion is limitless;  we have no secrets.  This  morning  I discovered an owl pellet by the front door—a wad of fur,  and  a  jumble  of  femurs  and  little  ribs—oracle  bones, easy to decipher.

[When Gene could no longer hold a brush, he moved into]

When  Gene  could  no  longer  hold  a  brush,  he  moved  into a  small  house  without  a studio.  One  of  his  old  paintings filled the wall above the kitchen table, and I would study it whenever we sat there and talked. Gene’s work encouraged contingency  and  interruption.  When  lines  or  fields  of color collided, he embraced the unexpected rupture of his intentions. Gene said, in old age there’s no longer a need to defend oneself. The metaphor we create for our own survival is difficult to dismantle, but not impossible. He said, I know that this is a prelude to dying, but the vapor of imagination is intoxicating, and the days indescribably beautiful. From my seat, I could see the slips of paper that Gene had taped to all the cabinets in his kitchen. One said, plates, another, bowls, and on the silverware drawer, silverware.