To have loved the way it happens in the empty hours of late after-
noon; to lean back and conceive of a journey leaving behind no
trace of itself; to look out from the house and see a figure lean-
ing forward as if into the wind although there is no wind; to see
the hats of those in town, discarded in moments of passion, scat-
tered over the ground although one cannot see the ground. All this
in the vague, yellowing light that lowers itself in the hour before
dark; none of it of value except for the pleasure it gives, enlarging
an instant and finally making it seems as if it were true. And years
later to come upon the same scene—the figure leaning into the
same wind, the same hats scattered over the same ground that one
cannot see.