Recently mowed mourning man made his way into the meadow. He was a happier sort of scamp now that the rains had ended, and skipping why not he decided that no one, probably (if it could be said), would be looking. It was early. And the sun and sky parabolically reflected in that space all that the heavy glistening could offer. His companion had been there too—and the airplanes, as always, those airplanes—rising and falling again and again in their customary patterns above his head. What a wonder he thought. And how splendid. So like him, anyway, the sadness parted—bidding adieu in most heartbreaking fashion—going away, as he recalled wistfully, some years later, for a little less than forever.
for Isabelle Muneera-Copeland Murdock, my most precious girl,
far away in Essouira, Maroc
30 May 2009