Lynne may ask me what I’m saying. The question still surprises me. Wholly without my knowing it, my lips are silently shaping words that are floating like sparrows through the empty branches of my mind. At the bottom of our hill stands a Pentecostal church, a vast windowless grange. They won’t let me in. I’ve asked. Which of course makes me curious. Thanks to James Baldwin, as well as to a whooping old-believer crane of an aunt (her whooping a sort of courting of Christ who I