I remember once I burned some brush and raking later found a toad baked, immobile but intact, like a Vietnamese monk, its limbs at rest, not splayed in some last leap for life. My memory is patchy, I think, too full, perhaps corroded by drink, or worse, blocked by tangled neurons like a road after a storm. But some things never fade; the toad is one, and I mourn it daily, even when humans claim newer space. Albanians fall and roll in the red grass, children wield guns, and the toad still crouches in my mind. I think of its cells exploding and they seem grievable to me, spewing lysosomes and chromatin, leaking ribosomes and all the miraculous machinery of life. And molecules, too, God’s tinkertoys, the bonds severed, the electrons flung off into space. Who mourns these microscopic parts? Where do they go? Do they resist their dissolution? It seems to me we don’t see the delicacy of creation but crash around in metal boots blind to all the levels of destruction. If we thought of cells, if we thought of molecules, every moment, every day, the awe would tame us.