Things have been quiet as I lie on leaves under a tree the color of thick gray clouds sprinkled with a rust of dying leaves. Because of the clouds. Because the ground is cool. And the grass. I sat in the same room with her, the girl to whom I thought I would confess. There are special people, and some are special because of a mutual possibility. We were special, so I wondered whether I should ask whether she likes me, which would have been a relief. But I sat in the same room with her, and the thought sank deeper. Delicate fingers ever covered in leather gloves of silence. I left, and fell under the first tree. Things have been quiet. Because of the clouds. Because the ground is cool. And the grass.
November 1971