52
THE FUGITIVE
and plain of face, like a boat stranded on a sand-bank when the river is shallow in the summer.
I come back to my room after my day's work, and my tired eyes are lured to her.
She seems to me like a lake with its dark lonely waters edged by moonlight.
She has only her window for freedom: there the morning light meets her musings, and through it her dark eyes like lost stars travel back to their sky.
3
I remember the day.
The heavy shower of rain is slackening into fitful pauses, renewed gusts of wind startle it from a first lull.
I take up my instrument. Idly I touch the strings, till, without my knowing, the music borrows the mad cadence of that storm.
