An ovular city! See how they rise on the plate like old Moscow on the low terrain, the great yellow domes like Kremlin cathedrals quivering in the wet morning. Nina fried me the eggs. I can hear her moving about the bedroom now. Oh, to sit at this table with this plate before me -- is to have everything.m Not simply eggs -- see: mushrooms like the brown fur crowns of cossacks, on horseback, parading on a back street; green peppers wedged like farms in the suburbs, under mist, and dill and pepperweed and basil scattered wild on the hills. A cat whines miserably on the porch. She wrings out cello chords from fur. But a cat song is nothing compared to my plate of eggs.And now I can imagine tearing the ear off a loaf of bread, using the black tuft to clean through the streets blending sunlight into every doorway. Then the finest time of all: with my silver fork, I lance at the plate. The two globes are now sun and moon, crossing on the horizon. Sunset on Moscow, the loveliest music on earth. Yellow light, yolk-rich, descends on the city, washes every stone in the city -- and Moscow signs the cool wet breath of evening. Sweet soul, don't leave before I eat this breakfast. Now, at last -- but first, just let me dash to the bedroom and kiss the wife for all this. And then somewhere, I'm quite sure, I can come up with a cat-size saucer of milk.