One after the other, always receiving or sending, writing or reading, inhaling or exhaling, and the border between: holding his breath, opening the mailbox and waiting for the next day, or not, for the answer, or not (but never, never not). March-November-April-October-March-October-April-November: the cold departing, cold arriving, cold departing again. As the migrating birds headed south and then north and then south and then north, so went the postcards, the truck, and his heart. It was a never-ending circle of actions that wound into one thing, malformed, but living and strong nonetheless. Their separate and difficult lives were one, no less difficult, in the ring of paper and seasons. This was their relationship, their marriage.