I did not set out to write a book about a pandemic, but because I aim to set up my easel and paint the world I see, many of the poems written during the lockdown naturally describe its effects (in particular, poems A.9 through A.34, and B.1 through B.12). The interesting urban landscapes and interplay with flora and fauna I would have preferred to spend my time depicting, rather than a life without crowds, or gatherings, bound at home. But we did manage to escape the cabin fever with walks to the Arlington Garden in Pasadena, and many of the lockdown poems describe its ever-shifting loveliness. That garden shares something of the spirit of Sun Ra, an exercise in lush improvisation, with great beauty in its seeming nonchalance. (Ikhnaton would have loved Sun Ra, and would have mandated that his scribes write more about love in outer space, too.) As I write this, we are still in something of a lockdown, and I think of the day that we will meet and laugh and have an interesting meal together.