The summer sun beat down on the lawn of the house down the road and I can see my grey house up the road, and my neighborhood friends are here, and we are playing ball. And there is adult screaming coming from my house. First male, then female, then male, then female, and so forth. It is sounding down the road. It is sounding around the whole neighborhood. It is wound all around me. It has me tangled—all tangled. The screaming and sunlight wind together in a white hot dance. But, I just throw the ball—my friends might be looking at me but I don’t know it. I just throw the ball. They are giving me funny looks, like saying “I’m sorry.” But I just throw the ball. At last the ball game is over, and my friends go home, but the screaming goes on. I dare not go home yet. It so happens that there is to be an eclipse of the sun this day, this afternoon, just before four—a partial eclipse of the sun that I hope to see. As four approaches, I settle down in the screaming to see it—as I had watched the faces of my friends, as I had thrown the ball—and suddenly one by one the windows of the grey house start sliding down shut behind the open screens, and the screaming dims—not completely, but partially. The light goes down with the screaming as the moon slides across the face of the sun—and the yelling is gone; not completely, but partially. The yelling and sunlight blend together, grow soft, grow grey, grow more and more distant. The gone sunlight brings me peace until the house falls silent and I can get up in the rising light and safely go home.