Ten Thousand . It is dusk. The birds sweep low to the lake and then dive up. The wind picks a few leaves off the ground and turns them into wheels that roll a little way and then collapse. There's nothing like branches planted against the sky to remind you of the feel of your feet on the earth, the way your hands sometimes touch each other. All those memories, you wouldn't want them over again, there's no point. What's next, you ask yourself. You ask it ten thousand times.