When the crickets have slowed to a crawl, the eveninghaving lost its heat at last, when the neighbors’ houses turnchiaroscuro as you take the dog for his last walk, the moonrising before you return, sending your shadows up ahead—this is when the day loosens and unlimbers, when allthe photosynthesis factories go dark, when oak treeslet down their hair awhile, leave off being symbolsof all that is stalwart and steadfast, slouching, instead,against our backyard fences, sipping hard cider from flasks.Jerry, next door, who has made his way down to halfa pack a day, who has been forced nearly into the street,if he wants to have his last smoke in peace, says, as you turnthe corner up your walk, come take a drag with me, would itkill you? though he knows you haven’t smoked for twenty years,that brief post-divorce period when you thought the new youmight take on the bourbon-and-tobacco voice of a jazz singer,though it never took. But it’s like riding a bike, this passingof the butt, the deep pulls, the feeling of surprised alveolipopping open. The smoke hangs around your headsin the humid air, as the red cherry glows, passes silentlyhand to hand, brightens, dims, brightens, goes black.