TV, low-volume, lull of noon, sofa shaking, fan swinging, clink-clanking crockery rack, door rat-tat-tat, footsteps clitter-clat-rish-tish-boom-thud. Sinuous thoughts of: should we leap under the bed, in case weight of wall’s upon us, or rush downstairs, level four, three, two, one, ground? What if weight of building’s upon us, crushing, like there’s so much unmoored, no terra-firma, no luck can get us through. When Mother Earth steadies herself, still locked-eyes with kiddo, I’m imagining entanglement, almost fractured, mangled metal, but no, just an outburst—same as me this morning, mother having a bad day. We’re back okay, One-Two, One-Two…