Early on this summer morning, our last in New York, I meant to write with no more purpose than the small breeze drifting over the pond from the north, washing ashore on my bare legs. Perhaps that warbling house finch and squawking goose have their reasons. But the breeze is without intention. I wonder if I could be the breeze, with no will whatsoever, pushing lightly in around the edges of consciousness.
Already I am distracted by sunrise drawing a curtain of yellow light downward over the dark green face of leafy hardwoods on the western shore. I need a picture! No I don’t! Yes I do! As though I could hang on to this cool light and gentle moving air for longer than right now, as though I could ever really knit you into this picture, as though anything was ever more important than this sunrise.
Already I am a little sad. Already I am looking into the future. Already I am lost in our departure. Beyond the mirrored trees, cars and jets rumble into the uncertain morning. Time rolls on. My grandson is awake. I really must go.