In certain corners of the town fires are being lit. The last wood of the winter is still a bit damp. The fingers of the old men go to feel the moss on the bark. It’s soft like the fur of a young girl in the grass. Our fingers remember things the rest of us gave up on long ago. Just before dusk the rain tapers off to a drip and the sky opens like a pink wound. Before lighting a flame under the kettle the old men pour the iron-colored water into a bed of daffodils and fill the kettle with a stream from the faucet. Some people say this detail makes for a better tea. Then some people need to hear the sound of water, even in small increments, in the dying light. It’s a way of knowing that you’re still alive that has absolutely nothing to do with you. The moon, which rose in the morning, sets a little after dark. The sound it makes is just loud enough to wake the girl in the grass.

 

 

Bellingham Review Issue 60