Laurie W. Stoelting
It’s late afternoon, under fog, and a good wind. You need exercise so we agree to hike up on the mountain. At the trail head the air is almost balmy. Jackets off, we climb. 6pm, pants rolled up, I’m down to the top from a two-piece swim suit, our view, over fog, 30 miles. The August sun lingers, our shadows are long and the dry California grass golden. A little wave of pleasure. I tell you, we are lucky to be alive.
Suddenly, an aria drifts towards us from the woods. We decide to follow the sound, and come upon a small party in a deserted amphitheater. Fellini-esque. People arrive, are greeted, then pass back and forth. A woman, skimpily clad, moves among the guests. A fiddler sings and plays passionately. Someone is strumming a guitar. People eat from all white plates. A banquet, beneath the sweep and shimmer of a hundred blue dragonflies.
above the fog—
to stop me