Spring comes with no particular surprise. Glacier rocks begin to surface in fallow fields. The shift of warmer weather lets them rise up, however briefly— another cairn built by the side of the road is a land- mark made to measure memory. The map of this town is sun-bleached and creased on roads that go nowhere. We can get lost, tracing the distance between here and there. Yesterday, I found a pair of safety scissors in the kitchen garden’s mud. They still make a clean cut. The map splits in half. The cemetery divides into shares. No one has left.