What with foresight and dancing, gypsies would seem to pass easily between worlds. The hummingbird too— only a moth with a beak— Have I ever heard it hum? Yet it's everywhere welcome, coaxed by red flowers, even sugar water, for we are devious, in our desires. And the dead, we embody them for our own purposes. I can't talk to a shadow, to an abstraction. A sun worshiper, my brother, always raising his face to it. One touch and the body roar quieted. Now, though I walk the length of the park, he is not there. He is nowhere under the sun. I want the dead but I am with the living. The tulips raise up their hands. The lunch crowd swallows me.
In the heat, in the high grass their knees touched as they sat crosslegged facing each other, a lightness and a brittleness in their bodies. They touched like shells. How odd that I should watch them say goodbye. What did it have to do with me? There was my own stillness and the wasps and the tiny flies for a long time taking stitches in the surrounding air and a comfort I felt, as the wind tore through, to find the trees miraculously regaining their balance.