A gleaming fingernail of a moon hung over the bird, the pool of saltless water lapping the mossy rock.
You know how the Great Lakes curl into Ontario as well as the US? On a map, the point where water meets land would just be a line, but in reality, where the lake licks the pebbles of the shore is just like a lovely little kingdom, and that’s where Mom, Dad, my brother and I drove this evening.
In the dim, haunting light of the setting sun, a magic was cast over the shore of the lake, and it suddenly seemed like the sea. It’s funny how your mind can hoodwink itself like that. An irregular frame of city stretched from the shore all the way around the water, rimming the horizon of the lake. Across the foil-like expanse of bright water, we saw dark buildings with tiny bright windows. Hence, it was most definitely a lake. But my brother and I jumped onto the rocks and sat on the granite, stained with lichen; a seagull sat blinking next to us, and below us a quiet shaft of light fell into the breathing stretch of wet sand. And so we were somehow also at the sea.
Summer sunsets come late. It was past eight-thirty when the light drained from the sky.
The lakeshore had felt like a great palace chamber, with the eastern corner lit in pink. Mauve-tinted sky reflected itself into hues grazing the water beneath. The entire corner was luminous, the wavering waters casting amethyst shades all over itself. But as the sun set, the sun drank up the tints, leaving behind a creepy infinite blue. Loneliness crept into the corner and the light seemed to be drawn rapidly into a center to the west.
When the sunlight had drained completely from the water and the sky, electric lights flickered on in the city and the highway. And so I guess light shapeshifts between districts and kingdoms.
