In the house in the rain. She talked about the grey sagging cloud sky. We were alone and the rain walked over the roof and the quiet distance and the woodpile snake. We looked through the drawers and saw so little was the same as it was. We saw how they had moved on, but were still chained to the yellow house they walked out of every morning. She pointed to the old things and named them. The rugs were the same and worn to the floorboards and the floorboards were smooth and below them was the plastic mountain. No parts or pieces; all lost in the back where it rained and rained. Screen door views of shapes and black crosses and there it was for us to watch as it walked to the fence. A tall nothing, a long etched figure searching for the oak wood celebration. Hallelujah.