Who is Gone, and Who Remains Dusk: the boy secrets himself in a tree-root, eavesdropping on the innards of insects. What he hears is not the world of insects but the world outside: for example, innards of machines. The setting sun turns beneath his feet like the wheel of a truck, the boy’s father drives a truck the truck is empty parked in an empty field. The father gets out, and the soundless beauty of the sunset strikes him dumb. He turns off his crying cell phone, says to the boy: all things turning at the edge of the sky have lips, have tongues. But they speak only amongst themselves, erecting their ears upon this speech. The boy, refusing to believe in the ears of things, listens to the ears of his heart. In truth, he is not listening at all, but, by not listening, he overhears a different kind of hearing— he invents his own deafness, and soars, rising on mute updrafts of imagination. Behind our everyday sunset, could there be a miracle-world alive with...