At Savage River Lodge Only the trees are raining now— the storm passed through the forest like a night shiver and was gone. Out of the dark and into it, the August sizzle of crickets. Wrapped in a blanket, I sit on the deck of my one-room cabin. Twenty yards away, yours. We're wise enough to know confinement sets us apart. Earlier tonight, we feasted a friend with other friends, the evening ample and kind. I'm pensively dizzy with it, and would probably have slipped into vague solitary considerations, had you not turned on a light in your cabin its glow barely visible through the low branches of an oak. So I quietly tiptoed closer to your window, bare footed on gravel and grass, and watched you be alone, not four feet away from me. Everything you did was unsurprising, familiar— you already seemed distant, self-contained. And I suddenly felt I was no longer there, while you went about your life without me. What else was there to do for me but to look away, and walk back into the dark?