[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.