It’s midday: spiderweb snares have long been broken by careless dogs or startled bikers. The dew’s all gone, having vanished in an inhalation of clouds. Young bathers pick their way across gravel and slickrock, tender-footing it, laughing when one of their own missteps and yelps. It’s a long time since I’ve been here, in this palace of memory. The mirror in the creek is cloudy, hedging its bets, knowing I’ll ask after you. It’s cagey today, singing only about light and oak leaves, about small hatchlings no bigger than my pinky nail. It shares no stories for me about things we knew when you were alive. And yet: it knows new stories, it says, tumbling in deep aquifers, and those stories bear my name too.