Denton Loving

John Prine died this week from the virus, and fifty-thousand others around the world. My mom turned 75. Instead of birthday cake and a party, three rabbits jumped and chased each other in circles around her house. Every state was a self-declared disaster, but not everyone’s isolation was the same. Those of us with too much time on our hands cleaned out garages, basements, storage sheds. Our dumpsters overflowed with dry-rotted clothes, broken-down kitchen gadgets, back issues of National Geographic. From my barn loft, I rescued a box of my old toy cars. My favorite: a blue Tonka twoseater—missing its back wheels, another sign to shelter in place. The super moon—perfect light for stalking prey—called my cat to action. At 4 a.m. I let her outside. I could see far into the fields where the cattle glowed like ghosts.