The pale sun, inclining, touches the tops of the swamp maples. This time of year I pay attention to small changes. I lean my elbows on a prie dieu of light as though spring required an act of faith. As the afternoon turns deep orange, I rock, wait for a call from someone who is decoding my blood, reading the shadows in my chest. Stubborn as a ten-year-old, I am sure that my body has a half life of a hundred years. But at this moment there is just the fading day. No spring. Not yet.