Down the hill, in the field of sweet alfalfa, they're freezing each other, the children playing tag and I'm up at the house, I'm in the picture window, thin and distant like the glimpse of a surfacing fish. What dark waters the house is, behind me, settling into evening. Dusk and there are, of course, fireflies. Tell me, what was your name? When you visited once, by the backroad where the stones glowed pale in the moonlight, I was too young, I still thought I belonged to the world. But now quartered in this house, watching the neighbors' children turn to dusk, I feel I'm ready. Come back and bring your finest wine, the oldest bottle. Bring that strange dusty book you were reading.