at Arroyo Pond A relapse of Lyme disease: fever and chills, flickers of pain. I want to sleep all the time, and my arms ache. I lie on the steel grate that juts over the stream. A swarm of midges zigzags in the sun: sparks that flash as they hurtle to mate. Newts pad slowly over the mud and float in an embrace for hours. I sat on this same grate with Peter: the grille marked lines on our legs. I stood here with Jed as he unbuttoned my blouse: my boots scraped against metal when I leaned toward him. Now Peter is dead, Jed a stranger. Not much here has changed. Skunk weed lines the trail; wild cucumber climbs up the same bay laurel trunk and ladders its way across branches. I take my pills. I long to be well the way I used to long for love.