Brilliance
It’s a hot and sticky morning as I steer somebody else’s ‘66 Malibu though the July-dry fields of Nelson County. The Tye River’s down to a trickle, neither of us in any hurry to get anywhere important.
Under a one-lane bridge, Alice dances by herself in a dress made of dragonfly wings. Sunlight catches, crackles and shimmers off both her and the ankle-deep water. If her movements were any slower, they’d be imperceptible to the human eye.
Lost in the wrong memory, I’m still wearing last winter’s blinders. Radiohead moans through this ancient and tinny dashboard speaker. “Just because you feel it doesn’t mean it’s there.” My own cavalcade of loneliness crosses over her bridge, unaware of Alice and her anonymous coruscation.
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