The water lukewarm as I stand and fall and stand. Worn rocks shift beneath. Clouds of murky mud stir into frenzy, bellowing upwards into the rushing tide. Limp pants squelch as I stumble up the bank and into the thicket. Feet turn without thought toward the familiar path. The stench of littered blueberries, rotten and sweet, rises from the cobblestones. Around the night spins wanting and dim.
Then dull surprise. The house is still where it was today and yesterday and the day before. Run down and impermanent, its edges bloom sharp against the waning moon.
Will be gone. Tomorrow. Cannot rest now.
Tepid and still, the dying summer ebbs and flows.