Life Is an Affair of People, Not of Places

Two young women walked

Carefully downslope

From the black boulder

Of tumbled basalt

Where they had picnicked

On the scruffy hill.

The car they climbed in,

That jinn, that demon,

Carried them away.

The dramatist wished

She could have heard them,

Whatever they said.

The novelist thought

Of a possible

Fiction anyway.

The diarist took

Note of all of this.

Cyclists pedaled past.

The air moved around.

The air moved around.

The air moved around,

And everyone’s wish

Was granted that day.

The dramatist heard

A fragment passing,

Yeh, I don’t know yet.

The novelist wrote

A full day’s quota

Of word count, then napped.

The diarist filled

The entry’s whole page

With words for details.

The cyclists finished

Their loop, stowed their bikes

In their van, and left.

The two young women?

They came back. They parked.

They walked together

To the water’s edge.