With You Between the Last Step

We are enfolded, because our thing, as such, is complicated (and Latin roots matter). At what point do the many miles devolve into simply "not-here?" And all its attendant sorrow. Here it's nearly dusk, a specifically New England softening of light as day ends in mid-summer. You can hear the river, the tractor working corn fields past the kids playing football in the park, and further yet, traffic rumbling west on Route Nine. Well, we are all heading home. Yet ask: why do we close our eyes to hear better? Here I can hear the river, and if I step away, I can still hear it but fainter. Last week a bald eagle circled high overhead. Cirrus clouds driven by wind only seem to be wandering or lonely. Remember the notes we wrote before screens ruined our lives? I want to live with you between the last step where one can hear the river and the step where you can't anymore. That silence. This love. These folds.