A beetle with a boombox on his shoulders, blasting classical violin music. He’s outside my door on the concrete patio. In summer, community gardens slouch. A kid wins a fish at the fair. The grass gives the river its terrific nutrients and we all get the feeling that wickedness reigns. Men lay on sidewalks caressing cans in paper bags, falling in love with the beetle’s speaker. It is something grand. Despite the compression needed to translate violin onto a compact disc, I hear five Mongolian horses huddling against the blizzard, thinking of becoming a bow.