You said it smelled like moss. But my fur knows bog-tide, the violet threshing of Jacarandas. It was windy. I tugged at your cuff. A spoon tarnished in oatmeal and you cut paper to mimic how luster wilts. The clamor was pieces of cast music parceled into sheets. We both recognized the odor of sunlight across afternoons. Unknown like the gold of Van Gogh’s sheaves you said you heard the petal abandoning the stalk.