Empty wine bottles at our feet. The remnants of cold salads and sliced cheese. The picnic basket, as much as possible in the tight crowd, kicked aside.
Standing to pee I snapped the stem of a wine glass.
The stage among the trees; the stage lights lashed to the trees' trunks, high up. The actors running by.
Their eagerness a kind of joy. Our laughter, too.
The moon coming on, very late, turning the sky, the tops of the trees, vaguely silver.
The only line I remember being: "All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder."
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