and the homeward bus is lurching from the brightly lighted station into the twilight, dreaming world of wintry garden suburbs. Smoke’s in the air, and grass, and dinner. The day goes out in a green sky and the first star. Soon the family men are heading into their curving avenues, smiling at the young girls passing, soft as poppies in the night. Keys turn in the fancy doors and cymbal clap of saucepan lids welcomes the hunter home. The oldfashioned man in the turned-down hat stumbles in at his laurel-dark gate that warns of dogs long dead— those were the…