Notes

Sometimes you need to climb higher to see how it all falls back into the sea. The armless statues naked from the waist, the columns jittery and peeling like dead skin. Sea-blue houses on the Greek coast, the beach growing at your feet while under canopies of grass we sip drinks with matching straws. The easy chairs in the sun are lined up like dominoes and the anchored boats are at half-mast. The sea endless in its calm.

In the next town over the donkeys are being prepared for the next climb. Carrots and all. A jagged cliff of broken windmills waits for the onslaught of photographs, the smiling Don Quixotes not too far from the real thing. The locals shut their mouths because they know hot air rises and falls with each phase of the moon.

When the chill of night descends from the hills it empties the sand, which we didn’t talk about enough these days. The sand at our feet. And now in the dark of a hotel window, the shutters pushed open as far as they could go, it becomes hard to tell where it begins and where it ends. Miles away and beyond us. Where they have other things to worry about, if they wonder at all.