Outside, the rain seems

always on the brink. Like

most people that morning

I was avoiding my father’s

funeral. I must’ve stood

at the door with my coat on

for hours, always turning 

back as though putting off

seeing a film. It was the sort of day

for wearing an old shirt

into town to buy a new shirt.

The rain began. The wind

agitated the lake. The sort

of lake you can’t when

giving directions from the road

miss. The sort of road

people call ‘the high road’

leading down to the lake

people call ‘the old lake’

from which the wind brings

news of the drowned boy.