Nothing to Be Done

Dry brown leaves skittered across the boulevard, their tips scratching the blacktop like the claws of runaway squirrels. I was there, but also far from there, a reverie having lifted me to an Andean spring near Quito, astride the equator, half north and half south of the middle seam of the world. In my memory, I felt the place ineffably strange, infused somehow with a wild geometry shimmering just beyond reach, as unsettling as the auras the trees had, mourning clothes, along the road the day the man came too early for anything good and spoke to mom, who urged us out of bed and dressed, and drove us all to where there was nothing to be done.

This piece appears in the CP Quarterly.