march 1999

I see Cabral writing. Pencil moving, mouth moving as he spells the words (or is he saying them) to himself. I hear my pen and Cabral’s pencil scratching on our papers.

Outside the wind blows the remains of the petunias in the flower box around. The little waves in the lake are coming out of the south. The sky is blue. The lake is brighter blue. It looks cold, but maybe it’s warm. I can almost hear the wind blowing the trees outside. I see the wide beach where the water is so low.