The yard half a yard, half a lake blue as a corpse. The lake will tell things you long to hear: get away from here. Three o'clock. Dry leaves rat-tat like maracas. Whisky-colored grass breaks at every step and trees are slowly realizing they are nude. How long will you stay? For the lake asks questions you want to hear, too. Months have passed since, well, everything. Since buildings stood black against sky, rain hissed from sidewalks and curled around you. O, how those avenues once seemed menacing! I know what you miss sings this lake. Car horns groaning in rush hour. Sweet coffee. Wind pounding like hammers. Warmth of a lover. Crickets humming love songs to the street. Deborah Ager