The poet is in the center of a city known for its beauty. He’s in a chair next to a circular 
fountain, the water of the fountain tinged green with algae, and in the center of the 
fountain a circle of eighteen jets, the jets on a timer, the water rising, falling, green-white 
against the clear blue sky.
        He’s reading poetry—a poet he loves from the High North. He reads the words 
but can’t bring himself to concentrate. Though the man whose words he reads is long 
dead, the poet thinks of him as a friend, and when he travels in the city, the man’s book in 
his briefcase—or, as now, in his hand—he feels that he has a friend with him.
        Today, though, by the fountain, he reads the words Now May is at the window
over and over, but finds himself losing interest, pulled away each time by the sound of 
the fountain, the height of its jets, and he sees now, knows now, that though long ago he 
consciously chose not to compete with other poets, every poet competes with water.