"Oh, the way the moon kept shining on."

"Such a wonderful lot
of terrible things
did happen."

Not far from our building, people huddle over something on the ground. In the clearing reserved for construction vehicles, a van marked by the city is parked alongside two smaller cars. No one is frantic; no one looks worried; but something distressing is going on.

A teenage boy stands between the cars, listening to his mother explain and direct. His eyes are on the group of four or five men and women before him. They raise an object onto their shoulders. Bundled in a flannel baby blanket, it is the size of a large fox or a small deer, or a dog. It can't be human, though it might be. It is certainly dead. In its swaddling, the workers and bystanders carry it to the van, carefully, like pallbearers.

Later that evening, the apartment is suddenly filled with a horrible smell. We search around us, wondering what we've done, how we might have caused it. But it's coming in from the street, so we close the window; we bring our hands to our faces and hide in our homes for the night.

TRACK LISTING: Beatrice Arthur, "Barbara Song"