September
the light will not turn on. It cannot, in the dark. That’s odd. You feel your
way by bed and doorframe, couch and switch that will not light, to the 3am
widdle. All of Wye River is darkness. Even the light of the boat at the
starless horizon has gone. Sound of your water on water assures you have found
the middle. Lampposts are out. Hills are black as before settlement and sea
sounds in the dark. Generators? Lightning? At breakfast Carol says it was like
the old days, when you couldn’t see your hand in front of you.
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