by Peter Biles

—–Recall summer camp? The dock? Here. Close your eyes. Try to follow my lead:

Rain-covered canoes, upturned, sampled with mildew, lay by the old camp lake in the Indian Summer haze, still set up on the rack where we used to philosophize with feet plugged in the muck, tank tops grimed with sweat and sun. Cicadas roar, tree frogs chatter, you laugh and opine and riddle the water with your feet. We sit on the dock now as evening waxes with forest discourse and wanes with the signets of stars and fireflies. We tend to forget these days how baroque the world really is: Stuffed to its brim with fissures that science can’t fully plumb.

We can’t stay here and forever talk, though, or neglect the tin buildings above. We can, however, mix words with the water, and let ‘em join the ripples, which ebb as sonar waves into space and make mirages against the far side of the bank.

—–Wait. Maybe we can stay here. Can we? Maybe we never left.

Peter Biles is the author of four books, including the 2024 story collection Last November and the novel Hillbilly Hymn. His stories and essays have appeared in Plough, Midsummer Dream House, Silly Goose Press, Dappled Things, and several others. Discover more at www.peterbilesauthor.com.