At 9:42 on this May morning the children's rooms are concentrating too. Like a tendril growing toward the sun, Ruth moves her book into a wedge of light that settles on the floor like a butterfly. She turns a page. Fred is immersed in magic, cool as a Black Angus belly-deep in a farm pond.
The only sounds: pages turning softly. This is the quietness of bottomland where you can hear only the young corn growing, where a little breeze stirs the blades and then breathes in again.
I mark my place. I listen like a farmer in the rows.
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