Almost
Montreal, 1999. *South of the border, west of the sun (apologies to Muraharu), was where the dawn was found. No noble soul may keep the lie an art.
A writer in the morning at the Old Port of Montreal. Under the moon broke the sunrise oath.
At night, rain. It stops, and Gale Jones leaves his un et demi to Alexandra Basin, where seven years ago he saw her. There she stands, as she was.
STRANGER. A good time and place for a walk.
STRANGER. It’s in the past, and lost to me forever.
STRANGER. It must be. Yes, amnesia!
The writer knows not the words, not yet. Nothing but regret for dashed hopes.
STRANGER. I ask, dear stranger. Do you love the sunrise?
GALE. Nothing to love about the sunrise.
STRANGER. I see. Do you mind waiting?
They watch the sunrise for two minutes. Two minutes, a small degree of sky at daybreak. Full, perfect seconds stay and go—one and another, forever hanging—seeking the splendid authority of the day's new light.