I remember

A gaze of raccoons, a rhumba of rattlesnakes, a float of crocodiles.
A dazzle of zebras, a rafter of turkeys, a business of ferrets, an exaltation of skylarks.

Hank arranges the small plastic people on the bench - the mother, the father with binoculars, the brother with blond hair, saying "Make room for your sister sit here too. She wants watch the animals eat."

When Tucker played with this zoo set, he imagined less and recited more.  Donkeys aren't the same as horses. He liked to group the creatures in separately fenced pastures, to keep prey safe from predators.

Tolliver, whose love language was for the longest time cars and trucks and things that go, preferred to drive the tractor around, vrooming and beeping right past the living things.

A stud of horses, a school of fish, a pride of lions, a tower of giraffes.
A murder of crows, a congregation of gators, a memory of elephants. A memory of elephants. Nothing thunderous in that phrase, nothing like what might be suggested by the word herd or parade. But still, something enormous and consuming and ethereal.

I remember, and we play.