He walked out to Bat Ayin where the hill dropped down and the houses rose up humble like apples and the mikvah was colder than you could stand.

Then down to Yerushalayim where the families cooked meat in Gansacca park in a holy tumult.

Up to the Kossel where the light on the huge hewn stones shone in the afternoon stillness.

Then he walked up to Nachlaot where the Friday bustle rustled like dead leaves but not in a grotesque way.

More like caterpillars.

But not in a grotesque way.

More like streams, sometimes rivers.

Shabbat is coming! Who can describe it!