I see, as I push him along, that the sidewalk unfolds itself in heuristic benevolence before him. Birds and trucks appear as weighty manifestations of the things shown to him in the books he devours (literally). Two birds, little theophanies, cross his path. Hop, hop, tweet, tweet, fly, fly.
He shrieks with excitement at the apparition of a bus and flings up his left hand to wildly make the busbusbus sign. Searching out my face to together-remember all that we have repeated and agreed upon. Quinn and I share the communion of busbusbus. It is good indeed.