At the cemetary, barn swallows swooped close on a cool-sweet wind, twittering lapis lazuli flints above the tall blond grass. If certain avian species had been named today, Jimmy mused, they might have received common names like freeway-pass swift or old-factory owl. Bumblebees drowsed; tiny white flowers bent beneath black dime-heavy bodies. Heart-shaped cherries popped loose warm blood-red juice, staining fingers a newborn summer hue.

. . .

From our perch among flat glossy modern headstones and numbered markers of unpurchased plots, we could note skinny airport towers, the public hospital, the thin grey channel between Alameda and Oakland, the Lake and the Port, silvery traffic flow on the Bay Bridge. Landmarks on an animated Lego-sized 3-D vision of our recent history, oaklandish sturm and drang remote during a hill-side picnic among the dead with a lovely lady who will soon disembark on her project expatriation to Tokyo in June.




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