Over the bridge, and the waters of Lake Washington are smoke-gray and glassy. I expect to see a plesiosaurus break the water; instead, I see beech yellows and maple reds on the shore, curving around and in and off into the distance. A tiny cloudlet glides just above Seward Park's pine trees. It is too perfect to be real, too exquisite for me to capture with my thin words, too fleeting.
I am home again.