The Banks of Certain Rivers
“It’s still early, not yet eight, and through my kitchen window I’m watching the day come over the world to turn the orchard from monochrome to color. Mist burns away. Across the field, under one of our twisted old apple trees, two deer nose at rotten fruit down amid the bent, dewy grass.
They spring upright and freeze—cautious, ears turned forward—and bound away when Alan Massie and his old bicycle come rattling around the curve of my drive.
Alan leans the bike against my deck and shuffles in t...hrough the side door like he has a thousand times or more over the course of my knowing him—silently, a stainless steel travel mug in one hand and a half-eaten bagel in the other—and takes a seat at my kitchen table.
“Could almost see my breath out there,” he says, settling into a chair.
My arms are crossed as I continue to stare out the window. “It’s coming.”
“We’ll get rain next week.”
My coffeemaker hisses to completion, and I top off Alan’s mug before filling one for myself.MoreLess
They spring upright and freeze—cautious, ears turned forward—and bound away when Alan Massie and his old bicycle come rattling around the curve of my drive.
Alan leans the bike against my deck and shuffles in t...hrough the side door like he has a thousand times or more over the course of my knowing him—silently, a stainless steel travel mug in one hand and a half-eaten bagel in the other—and takes a seat at my kitchen table.
“Could almost see my breath out there,” he says, settling into a chair.
My arms are crossed as I continue to stare out the window. “It’s coming.”
“We’ll get rain next week.”
My coffeemaker hisses to completion, and I top off Alan’s mug before filling one for myself.MoreLess
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