The Ghost Dancer

It is surprising to be here, now, among these people at the end. Far way, or so it seems, from anywhere where anything happened. The tiny river Tas drags its heels past our windows, barely able to push aside the willowherb and reeds. The swans have flown to deeper water and one pike has cleared the pond. Yet it has happened to someone, as surely as the ghost we saw that wild autumn evening dancing downhill beside my father's grave. It was more real than any question or belief, more substantial. I can still feel the wind in the trees and the unaccountable silence waving us away. None of us wants less than this: looking over the strands of history to one moment of memory recalled in love.