The sky was as blue as a cornflower marble, wisps of cirrus clouds high in the ceiling, and there were no vapor trails, no intruding airplanes. There were only hawks up there, and Jinx, sky-aware as always, sat with me and watched them in their fixed-wing thermal soarings. We were in the cemetery grass, and it was warm and soft there in the green, on the carpet that covers the sleeping remains of fathers and daughters, mothers and sons. The carved and lettered stones stood around us as if watching, and they were speaking, though not in voices a waking man can hear. I watched Jinx as he watched the…