A woman puts all her eggs in one basket. The basket is full of coins. The basket is full of thorns. The basket is full of smoke. The basket is full of tears, their faces turned sunward like flares. Really, her basket is full of lighthouses, each one a single eye that whips around in the dark. Each one a beaming yolk that guides something larger shoreward. The basket turns into an anchor that the woman could drop, but she keeps walking, the weight of this new thing braided into the fingers of her body.