Something has died in the back yard. In the wrecked concrete rubble that is the palette for a future garden, something is lying motionless on a bed of dead weeds against the back wall. It is gray and white, either fur or feathers, a rat or a pigeon, I can’t tell. But I know it is dead, there is a veil of flies on it, an undulating lace of black wings that rises occasionally then settles back down.

I go for my long run on Sunday, a time when I can do this one simple thing, fight gravity, friction, my own limitations. As my head spins away, my weight settles into my hips for the long slog, I watch the light change on the faces of the buildings downtown. It’s my own Rothko Chapel, now a brilliant reflection that stabs my eye, now a muted glimmer as the day fades. The clocktower, that landmark in my vista, has been sold to developers to turn into fancy condos. Now it has a grid of blue scaffolding over its face, its own veil of flies.