endless                                                      

It takes little. A field of ferns and wildflowers. A dirt path, good running shoes, a dog with bear bells. Tall trees and fast streams. A body of water. Sun burned skin and uninterrupted sky. A surf board to paddle to the middle of a lake. Strawberries with peaches. Fiction in hardcover. A full day in the sun.

As always, a small and quiet resident ache hums hard and hallow somewhere back in the middle of me, the white noise of my faulty wiring. At times I wonder what I miss most. The soggy earmarks of my youngerness or the youngerness itself. It is the particulars--sleeping on the bow of a sailboat, diving up deep from the ocean, walking with bare feet down sand alleys in Thailand, the sound of snow, the fog in redwoods, seals sounding off morning, steep cliffs and rocks and seaweed, boys on cruisers, golden --that run me aground.

At the lake women surround me. Organizing their children, gathering their supplies, greeting one another, eyeing my only-ness with suspicion. On the rocky beach with a big towel and a surfboard, a hardback book and flip flops, I am a strange anomaly. I try to smile, wave. They smile back half-hearted, turning away, looking back, moving forward. 

But I am an easy creature of solitude. Content to find a spot in the sun, soak up what's left of it, shore up for winter.