I can't ridge it back again from char. Not one board left. Only ash a cat explores and shattered glass smoked black and strung about from the explosion I believe in the reports. The white school up for sale for years, most homes abandoned to the rocks of passing boys--the fire, helped by wind that blew the neon out six years before, simply ended lots of ending.
A damn shame. Now, when the night chill of the lake gets in a troller's bones where can the troller go for bad wine washed down frantically with beer? And when wise men are in style again will one recount the two-mile glide of cranes from dead pines or the nameless yellow flowers thriving in the useless logs, or dots of light all night about the far end of the lake, the dawn arrival of the idiot with catfish--most of all, above the lake the temple and our sanctuary there?
Nothing dies as slowly as a scene. The dusty jukebox cracking through the cackle of a beered-up crone-- wagered wine--sudden need to dance-- these remain in the black debris. Although I know in time the lake will send wind black enough to blow it all away.