Clinch Park

He was drawn to water. Water, in which lived rocks
and weeds and formidable fish. Water, of dangerous
hues of blue, more violet than the pale-faced palette
of the sky. Water, the glue of contingent necessity.
Water, the stippled foundation of all foundational
philosophy. He looked into the watery eyes of the old
woman sitting next to him. She had on a periwinkle
sweatshirt in preparation for the night. She smiled
and turned away. The sun was disappearing over
Traverse City. There was nothing on the lake but a
faint sailboat and a shadowy gull. Cars, in awe of
evening, crept by metallically on the darkened parkway.
The soft sounds of sunset had subsided into silence.
The black water, infinitely resonant, spoke a lasting vastness.