I take the dog around the golf course and find treasure, a caution-orange ball nested like a motherless egg, parts of broken vape pens bright silver and white, and fallen feathers. The birds around here are always fighting, screeching electrically, dogfights ongoing, a war without statistics. I collect the feathers and stuff them in the Mother's Day mug too precious to drink from, the hawk’s luxurious rusty striations, the doves’ elegant dusky stripes. They sit by a collection of beach stones nested in the wooden plate I inherited from my gay best friend’s mother, who hated me for corrupting him, a delicious irony that still makes us smile. I can name their beaches of origin, recall the walks, soothe the complaints, applaud the handstands across estuary grit. Treekwend, we laughed though we forgot the binoculars as usual, each whale spout and set of flapping flippers money in our bank of reasons to keep living. My head will go the way of all flesh, and the stones will sink back into the sandy soil of wherever we happen to be living when I stop. You will remember me though; in the small bright objects you see when you’re not looking for anything, evidence of that greater love.