These nights every year

It is a graceful night. Tempered and quiet as the gulls glide down on the lake. The boats are floating past, like long silent dark shadows. As if the full moon has stories to tell. I am adrift in this drowsy seclusion, part of this play. Yet the water seems to send me back, back to that distant shore where you are speeding through the cluttered streets, making your way back home. A stranger in a street full of familiar faces. The mountains you are a part of, end and fuse into the murky green water lapping into my palms. Nature has a way of joining threads, weaving patterns, stitching back open pores. Familiarity has faded into a truce between the two of us. An unspoken agreement of burying that which ought not to be uprooted. Elements still compliment and complete the other, fill in the gaps and make the picture whole. The mountains offer the majesty of height and pride of expanse while the river marks motion and dignifies continuity. It is like one of those nights every year, when we meet to test the thread that vaguely binds our realities together.