Until The Wine Ran Out

From where we’ve sat on French stone wall ruins, what I imagine would be every star reasonably discernable to man has come to greet us at our spot, and allow us to observe as each individually dissipates into the expanse when the evening’s light encourages their rest.

The bridge I cross everyday and now know in delightful detail is illuminated in the distance by lights as yellow as the natural glow of the moon rising just behind it so that a reflection of the misshapen architectural feat completes a full circle where the arches connect at the waterline.

I watched the others watch the world, and awoke when one asked if we wanted to walk.

“Walk where?”

“Walk there,” as he motions with his gaze towards the river.

We rolled up our slacks, pouring glasses of red from a bottle we purchased at a closing bar, and stepped mindfully across the mossy concrete until we reached a junction at the wishbone shaped dam where in the central point is carved a funnel in the concrete large enough for me to straddle while the black water rushed beneath my legs.

I stood for a moment to face north, admiring the movement created from running water, the shapes that emerged from shadows dancing in the festival of motion, and the orchestra of sounds harmonized by frogs, water splashing onto rocks, and refrains from the stillness of night. Turning south, I shifted towards an appreciation of the calm surface unbroken by the turbulent future eminent of every molecule; the peacefulness of energetics absorbed in a town devoted to its connection with nature for over a thousand years.

With reluctance we walked back towards our resting place and sat in silence until the wine ran out.


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