listen to sounds from the shores of crystal lake, wisconsin
This morning as soon as I woke, I put on my swimsuit, still damp from yesterday, and went to the beach, Andrew following me to get the canoe. The water was cold and I was the only one in the lake, another far off on the beach.
Sarah appeared, sitting in meditation.
Twice I scared up a flock of seagulls.
In the mornings, under the long shadow of trees, the water is cloudier than in the afternoons when the sun rays split into flavors of turquoise, crisp divisions between the layers, the surface, a mirror of sky and water, the bottom sands crackling with tortoise shelled light.
We had breakfast and I washed the dishes and played a word game with Eleanora. The little girls went canoeing with the dads and I lay in the hammock and read Virginia Woolf's A Writer's Diary. Now, she is wondering if the masterpiece she has just written is mere self indulgent nonsense.
What if Leonard hadn't fallen in love with her, encouraged her, cared for her, published her books? Would there have been another to take his place or would some other writer have received the attention instead, Virginia Woolf meaning nothing more than a state and a wild dog?
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