a postcard

Tonight I walked down the frontage road to Shady Beach and sat and read a friend's poems. I looked up after reading and noticed what I hadn't before — the trees on the nes were starting to turn, tips all burnish and russet. The sun was under the trees but it was still light and a frail moon was ghosting at the horizon's edge. It was so beautiful that I thought of running home to fetch my camera so I could send a picture to you, my dearest reader. But we can't live like that, you and I, recreating presents, packaging memory. So I sat and watched the sky for a while and wished you were here.


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