He is so good at slipping quietly away, out of bed and bed-clothes, into work-clothes, into the bathroom, only turning on a light once the door is closed so Me and Baby and Another Baby Inside Me are not disturbed. He never wakes us—never wakes Baby or Another Baby, but I am already awake, which is not his fault. Another Baby squirms and pinches in me all night, so I’m awake all night, off-and-on, mostly on, as it was last time with Baby, and as it will be with Next Baby, Next Baby, so on, as many Babies as we can?

Through the wall I hear him brush teeth, swish-spit, comb hair, slap cheeks with woodsy cologne. 

Slap-slap! 

Who will smell his woodsy cologne today? Some client, not me. By the time he returns home the scent is gone, replaced by sweat. I only know it’s woodsy because sometimes I hold the bottle under my nose, breathe in, and smell the disappeared forest of my girlhood, all sap and needle, a small Lostness of Creation liquified, memorialized, and, if only in a bottle briefly, redeemed.

I hear him go downstairs. This is when I pick up the Sure-Veil monitor from my nightstand. It illuminates in my palm. I check that the volume is Silent, that the backlight is Low. A red notification asks me, as it does every morning, Where Would You Like to Ensure? The scope of our humble Paradise presents in the form of a list: External, Top Floor, Bottom Floor, Basement, Birdseye. I press Bottom Floor and on the screen the downstairs appears to me, him moving quietly through it. I toggle from camera to camera, view to view, following him, until Sure-Veil understands what I want and offers to take over. Another red notification appears, as it does every morning: Track Movement of This Figure? It is his figure outlined in red, with a rectangle for Yes, a rectangle for No, below. 

Yes, I press, and Sure-Veil begins to toggle between the cameras for me, automatically selecting those with the best view of him as he moves. 

He’s in the kitchen now. He slurps breakfast—three hard-boiled eggs. Fills and drinks a tall glass of water from the tankard. He takes his lunch from the fridge—paper-wrapped wheat roll stuffed with beef-and-beet pâté. Beef is precious but it’s his favorite protein. When he returns I will ask him, How was your roll today? How was the pâté? He will answer, Delicious, My Love, and he will thank me by kissing my forehead. 

I know his thankfulness is true because my skin tingles where his lips touch.  

He’s lacing boots now. Putting on jacket. Cracking neck. Leaving. Closing door gently behind him. So good at slipping quietly away. Sure-Veil tracks his figure to the outside, switching views to External cameras. Night-vision turns world pea-soup green. I roll away from the window so the monitor’s light, low as it is, won’t shine in the pre-dawn dark. So he won’t spy it through the window and wonder, What is my wife doing? What is she viewing? Whyever is she awake?

Another Baby doesn’t like me laying on this side. It squirms. It pinches me. 

We’re getting up soon, I tell it. Have patience. 

Baby has heard my voice and starts cooing in the crib. Shifting, stirring. Wondering, I’m sure, about me and my milk. For now it sounds content. When it starts to cry, that’s when I’ll rise and attend it. Till then, stay abed. 

I watch him walk down the drive, into the yard, to the one clear patch between the garden beds and henhouse. On that grass he begins his brief morning exercise. Jumping jacks, toe touches, arm swings, high knees. He abides the dictum: Nurture thine body for it too is Creation. He keeps himself well and, for this, I’m thankful, so thankful I must whisper to the dark, Thank the Maker for my husband, that he is well and good, as is our garden, our hens, our children, our humble Paradise. 

He finishes and walks toward his work-van. Soon he will enter it, ignite it, creep it down our drive. He’ll reach a certain distance from the last ground-based camera that Ensures our Paradise. Sure-Veil will toggle then to Birdseye, to the drone humming above our Paradise, forever Ensuring our family with its sweeping 360 vantage. From high above I will catch one last glimpse of his work-van before it moves beyond sight. Then comes the remainder of the day, remaining on and on and on.

But he’s paused. This is unusual. He’s looking down at the ground carefully. What has caught his attention? He bends at the waist, crouches. 

I zoom. Something long and thin on the ground, pea-soup green as everything else. It’s like a finger, a stylus, a hypodermic, I can’t tell. It seems very flat. He’s picking it up, examining it. At the foot of the bed Baby coos, a hungrier coo. He takes the flat thing over to his work-van, opens the door, holds it up to the light of door-ajar. Processing the arrival of light, Sure-Veil leaves night-vision. The natural color of the world, at least in the small pocket of daylight he’s made, returns. I zoom closer. I see then what it is he’s found—a bird-feather. 

I sit up as quickly as my big belly allows. Bright yellow and intact, a dark stripe—blue or black?—along the feather’s tip. Yellower than anything I’ve seen. 

I try to recall ever having seen such a yellow bird, one who could produce such a yellow feather. I try to recall ever having ever seen any bird but the rare brown wren. I think, No, I have not. Not even in my girlhood. Colorful birds are a Lostness of Creation, I’d believed. I want to weep now, to happily weep, seeing this beautiful extant thing. To rush downstairs and hold it in my own hands. Know what yellow feels like. I’m scooting off the bed, not taking my eyes off the yellow feather in the Sure-Veil monitor. He’s holding it tenderly up to the light. I have risen and am walking down the hall and Baby’s cooing turns to crying then I hear simultaneous slamming sound—door-closing through Sure-Veil, more distant door-closing from the outside. I hear simultaneous ignition. 

He is leaving. Of course, of course. I stop in the hall and sit down on the floor in the dark, watching work-van creep down drive. Of course, of course. He must work, must go to work. 

Though I’d imagined: Him rushing inside to show me yellow feather.

But he will show me when he returns. How was your roll? How was today’s pâté? He will answer, Nevermind the pâté, come see what I’ve found. 

Baby really crying now—milk, milk! 

I whisper, I’m coming, I’m coming. Here I come. 

I imagine yellow feather still on bright yellow bird flying or preserved in clearest resin or worn in my hair, like a barrette of gold, or an heirloom willed to grandbabies, great-grandbabies, or pressed with wax paper or placed in a long locket and worn around my neck or framed on our wall or donated graciously by us to somewhere worthy. I imagine word gets out about yellow feather. Neighbors leave their Paradises to come see, to ooogle, ogle, ooooo-aaaaa, call me lucky! Call me Chosen. Someone saying, A Lostness of Creation was reclaimed upon your Paradise. Yes! They fervently scan their own Birdseye views, cling to their own Sure-Veil monitors, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bird who graced us—us! Someone comes to film us, to spread Good Word: Yellow birds remain. Show the nation yellow feather. Our humble Paradise, us, deemed outstanding. Us! What a lovely Family! We’re shared with the whole nation. Us! Maker appearing in the unlikeliest places, here even, this row of meager Paradises. Here of all places, they’ll say. Home barely one thousand square feet, nothing much a yard, hens a bit sickly, vegetables a bit thin—Chosen all the same. Can you believe it??? Appears in the unlikeliest places. 

Wet-diaper Baby cries and I happily change it. Soiled cotton tossed in the vinegar bucket—getting stinky. Should cycle out, but vinegar’s precious. Will we be so precious soon? As precious as vinegar? Baby’s dry but still crying so I prop it on my big belly and happily give milk from my sore breasts, humming, Hush-you, hush-you. All this about’s to change.

Where’s the yellow bird? Who left the yellow feather? I tie Baby to my back and we search the yard for the nest. I summon Birdseye drone with Sure-Veil and use it to scan all our Paradise. It doesn’t take long. I ask Sure-Veil: Identify Movement. It gives me spiders, mosquitos, flies, waving leafy limbs and such, but no yellow bird. No birds at all. I ask Sure-Veil: Bird. Sure-Veil notifies: None Identified. Baby coo-coos on my back. I carry a basket and gather the hens’ eggs from the grass as we go. I ask Sure-Veil: Feather. Sure-Veil notifies: Invalid Search. Okay then. Baby coo-cooing. We walk our Paradise a little more, eyes on the ground. If he could come upon a yellow feather, can’t I? Then wetness seeping down my back and sudden shit-stink everywhere. Baby laughing. Back inside we go. Set basket of gathered eggs on counter as I pass it. Back to changing table to change Baby. Vinegar bucket brimming, uck-brown stinking liquid teeming with dirties. One by one I extract each dirty, wring it out, put in hamper, wring out, put in hamper, till it’s just the stinking liquid left in the bucket, no dirties. I should cycle it, but vinegar’s precious. Not to mention water. 

I’ll leave it one more day. 

I take these dirties down to scrub, then it’s time to start dinner.

Dinner simmering, Baby napping, I go through the last twenty-four hours on the monitor. I coalesce views from all External cameras. I ask: Identify Birds. As suspected, there goes a little brown wren. I focus on it, search it for yellow, but it’s brown, brown, brown. It hops around then leaves. I ask: Identify Yellow. Sure-Veil notifies me that I must be more specific. I pull up the record this morning, of him finding it. I outline yellow feather and tell Sure-Veil: Search Similar. This is specific enough. Sure-Veil understands what I want. Images on the monitor move rapidly, rapidly, then pause. Red notification says, Similarity Found. Red date-and-time-stamp at the monitor’s bottom indicate this is a record from yesterday, around dinner-time. There it is. Yellow feather sweeps back and forth on the air, lower, lower, till it lands on grass. There it stays till, I presume, this morning when he finds it. Where’d it come from? Where’s the yellow bird? I ask: Expand View. But, no, this view is as expanded as it can be. I toggle to the Birdseye angle but even from on-high, yellow feather seems to just appear. To emerge from nowhere. Feather-fall of ether.

Dinner’s plated. Whole house smells like sweet onion and garlic and biscuit. Baby’s getting so sleepy, can’t hold its head up, heavy-lids. I love Baby when it’s so sleepy. I give more milk while humming a lullaby about stars. Soon, in my arms, Baby’s asleep. I tiptoe upstairs and put Baby down. 

His work-van pulls up the drive. 

He doesn’t come in right away. Sits in his work-van. I watch him on the monitor as Another Baby kicks at me from the inside. I put my hand on my belly and shush. 

He comes inside and tells me that I won’t believe what happened to him today. Of course, I excitedly ask him, What? What?? I beg him to tell me. I’m feigning—he can’t know about me watching on the monitors. He’ll tell me, That’s not what Sure-Veil is for. It’s to Ensure our Paradise from those who’d take it from us—Thirsting marauders! Henless neighbors! Not your own good husband. Yes, yes, I’d agree, as he took my monitor away. 

I feign and he tells me his story— 

but his story isn’t true?

Something caught his eye as he was driving to work. He pulled over. He thought it was litter, but it was a beautiful yellow feather. A real one, from a real bird. He knew right away it was from Maker. He knew Maker had placed this yellow feather on his path for him to find and he must continue on this path, so he took the yellow feather and went on to work. His client today was Missus Melody—do you know Missus Melody? The fine woman from the broadcasts? She’s just as lovely in real-life. He was there to work on her air filtration system. He showed Missus Melody the miraculous yellow feather he’d found on the way to work for her. She wept, so delighted was she by its beauty. She asked, May I include this in today’s broadcast? He understood then what Maker wanted of him, why he put the yellow feather in his path. It was for this, so it could belong to Missus Melody, so she could share it with her big wide audience. She could spread its beauty to a larger audience than he could ever dream to, remind the nation not all of Creation is Lost—have hope! He was just thankful, so thankful, to have played a part. To have spied the yellow feather on the side of the road and to have had the wisdom to pause, to look, to bring it to Missus Melody.

I am so thankful too, I tell him. 

He is asleep and Another Baby is squirming, pinching, and I am awake. I’m thinking, How could he lie? And why? I don’t understand. I quietly pick up the monitor and switch away from the Sure-Veil of our humble Paradise into the feed of broadcasts. I search for Missus Melody. He seemed to think I tune into her every day, catch her every broadcast—does he think Baby minds itself? Changes itself? Dinner plates itself? Beef pâtés itself? Eggs gather? Dirties scrub? Tankard scours? What does he think? 

I find Missus Melody’s broadcast channel. I turn on today’s. She is lovely! Gorgeous! Her hair catches light like gold foil. Gleams! I keep the monitor silent, watch her mouth make words, watch her eyes maintain contact with the camera’s lens, her white teeth glint when she smiles. She holds up yellow feather—my heart seizes; I think, That’s mine!—and her pretty green eyes start to glisten. Happy tears. I see her mouth make familiar silent shapes: Creation, Maker, Love, Love, Love. Camera widens, view expanding. I gasp—there he is. He’s sleeping beside me, snoring, and he’s there in this broadcast with Missus Melody. View expanded, I see more of her lovely home, the parlor of her Paradise, full of real wood furniture and elegant window treatments. He sits there beside her, amidst her fine things, and he smiles with her, at her. They talk and laugh for a few moments, then the camera’s narrowing again, zooming in on her lovely face, her still-moist eyes. He’s gone from view, she talks on, mouth moving prettily, holds yellow feather up to the camera between two manicured fingers. 

I can’t watch anymore. I power down the monitor. Creep out of bed. 

Outside in the yard I walk, spin around on the grass. I have to spin if I want to get anywhere, the yard’s so small. Another Baby spins around in me, wondering, What’s going on? Why are we spinning? Above me the Birdseye drone watches. It’s wondering what’s going on too? I spin a little faster, arms outstretched. If another yellow feather fell now, drifted down now? Another Lostness of Creation found? I spin around. I ask Maker, Why not drop one on me now? Right now? Prove to me the yellow birds live! Prove to me Creation’s not gone! It’s coming back, mouths Missus Melody. All the beauty of Creation. A million mouths mouthing on a million broadcasts: Be good! Be thankful! Creation’s coming back! 

See, Proof! A Yellow Feather’s fallen! Thank Maker, thank Maker!

Stop spinning, I’ve fallen. Onto the grass. Something crunches under my bottom—an egg I missed while gathering. Its protein will stain my nightdress, an unseemly blob on my bottom forever and ever and ever, unless I jump up now and soak it in vinegar. Precious vinegar. 

I stay laying in the grass. I think, inside, I hear him snore. 

I mourn—death, waste, another Lost thing.

In her house a laying hen mourns—the possible child. 

Within me, Another Baby mourns too—the sort of yellow it may never see.