A Story over Milk

The first speech was a kind of symbol, and we hung it around the neck of the loveliest candidate. A tremendous number of people were coming and going, illuminated by star light drifting through uneven waves of fog. Sharp words arose like columns to no purpose except to be seen. At the base of each column was an unpronounceable name.

I am not alone walking among people puzzling over names. That too is a kind of unheard music, a percussion of the blood. Perhaps if you and I had written each other more often, especially in the down time, there would be less drama. But, hey, drama is not a crime. Crime is boring. Almost nothing we discuss is a crime.

A newspaper page blows past, wraps itself around the calf of a woman walking past. It counts for nothing to have me in mind unless, of course, you are at work. This day competes. The clothes I wear, like falling leaves, are not easily assumed. To return to our story, she stood taller, if such a thing is possible, and turned and waltzed into the historical like a ship that knows its cargo and its worth. Nothing could have been more disappointing, unless you take into account the close-cropped meadow grass, and the sparse though shapely apple tree.