Зима тревоги нашей

           AndIhadtakenitawaywithmeforthefirsttime—toavertevil?Tobringfortune?Idon’tbelieveinfortune-tellingeither,andimmortalityhasalwaysfelttomelikeasicklypromiseforthedisappointed.

           Thelight-rimmedboundaryoftheeastwasJuly,forJunehadgoneawayinthenight.JulyisbrasswhereJuneisgold,andleadwhereJuneissilver.Julyleavesareheavyandfatandcrowding.BirdsongofJulyisaflatulentrefrainwithoutpassion,forthenestsareemptynowanddumpyfledglingsteeterclumsily.No,Julyisnotamonthofpromiseoroffulfillment.Fruitisgrowingbutunsweetanduncolored,cornisalimpgreenbundlewithayoungandyellowtassel.Thesquashesstillwearumbilicalcrownsofdryblossom.

           IwalkedtoPorlockStreet,Porlocktheplumpandsatisfied.Thegatheringbrassofdawnshowedrosebushesheavywithmiddle-agedblooms,likewomenwhosecorsetingnolongerconcealsathickeningstomach,nomatterhowprettytheirlegsmayremain.

           Walkingslowly,Ifoundmyselfnotsayingbutfeelinggoodby—notfarewell.Farewellhasasweetsoundofreluctance.Good-byisshortandfinal,awordwithteethsharptobitethroughthestringthattiespasttothefuture.

           IcametotheOldHarbor.Good-bytowhat?Idon’tknow.Icouldn’tremember.IthinkIwantedtogotothePlace,butmancommensalwiththeseawouldknowthatthetidewasatfloodandthePlaceunderdarkwater.