At first light I came to the lake that had been waiting for me, though no one had said so. The mountains behind it held a patient posture; their faces repeated on the surface as if to certify themselves. Colored spheres drifted above the water. They kept their distance the way careful hands keep from ink until the hour allows. On the bank, stones arranged into a sentence that lacked its verbs. The trees received a signal; their narrow crowns trembled, yet nothing followed. I opened my notebook to measure the morning, but the letters stayed as dots. By noon the light had split me into witness and object. The lake accepted this without comment. The summons, I realized, had not been issued; it had been remembered.
