My eyes fell on scrawled writing next to me on the bench. At last, Monique's forever lover is eroding from memory. Desperate scratches on the railing cry for recognition. Monique, perhaps? Reflections in the water below obscure a murky presence. I sense dread, and let it pass.
Overhead, a great blue heron plies the thin skin separating heaven from earth. I hear feathers parting, wings heaving, a sine wave lingering behind.
At 20 minutes, a squirrel races up a cottonwood, along a branch to the end of a twig, where it proceeds to bite off wax buds. Lunch. Nearby, a red breasted flicker hammers for insects in an old maple, punctuating the quiet. A second squirrel scampers up the cottonwood to the same twig, chattering to beat hell, threatening the other to move on or else. A hundred wax-budded cottonwoods within my vision, and we have one with world-class nibbles? So selfishness isn't just a human trait, then. Good to know. At 25 minutes something amazing happens. Both squirrels splay out on separate limbs. And go to sleep.