It’s the end of August
and the ferns are rusty.
A sick leaf lands
splat on the car window.
Paul, Siri, Sophie
left late this afternoon:
Russell and Chase drove home
this morning. Last night
we drank eight bottles
of wine and a half bottle
of Armagnac while talking
unceasingly of affection,
old friends together after
many months apart. Alone,
cheerful crickets attend me
and the puppies make mock
war at my feet. I start this,
“There are days friendship…”
winding up for the big
sentiment, but last night our
hearts were simpler than that.