Try, fail. Try again, fail better.
—Samuel Beckett

In Sunday’s typically heat-knit twilight, I glance up from pinching pie crust into old-fashioned, part curtains patterned in fat cherries. A palomino trots down my street, its rider guiding with the blithe sway of a professional. Hup, Marian. The gallop. By the time I scream for the world and make it outside, man and horse are a yellow star bouncing, a juicy glistening on the wane, the clopping echoing into epic—towards Chatsworth’s deformed cliffs, red as goblins in the last of this sun: boulder-chop a madwoman’s teeth, baring. On, on…