A friend asked what I was doing to save the world, and I said organic bananas. He looked at me as if I were a yellow crescent and asked again what I was doing to save the world, so I said reusable bags and shorter showers. He asked a third time and I offered bus pass, bicycle, hybrid automobile. No, seriously, he sighed, with the deflated sound of a bad inner tube—what are you doing to save the world? Well, I told the remaining air around his shoulders, I write checks to good causes and vote, load scraps in the compost bin, keep a cold house. I said garden and clothesline, library card, my thrift store closet. I piled on smart light bulbs, old computer, locally roasted coffee beans. I thought he was going to lose it. He had cartoon steam ears, stern lips—looked straight into my face and asked once more what I was doing to save the world. Our sky was soft grey, a cool pillow. Juncos, starlings darted about. In the shrubs: a red-breasted finch. I was missing the point, I know, held no key, stood suddenly small. I’m teaching myself to play the ukulele, I told him, I have no idea what I’m doing.