Last night at sundown, strolling past a grove in Prospect Park, heading back to the subway from an evening we spent picnicking out in a clearing, With the night, left free by the setting sun, painting the path before us in darkness, I heard my divine friend Celia’s divine girlfriend Shelby sing, To me, and to dear Keegan in between, about how close to nature she feels, when she's in the Rockaways, when she's out there surfing. Out there on a single plank of wood over the freezing water. Out there alone, far from man. Out there completely in the ocean's hand. Learning to work with the waves as they come. Trying to be brave. Trying not to fall into the water and get swept back to land. Trying to pick herself back up. Trying not to spend all the sun's allotted time waiting for her nerves to cool. Preparing to launch herself back into the water from the sand. And after every tender goodbye lay said, on my walk back home alone, I thought to myself, "Isn’t that all there is to life's great show?" Out here in this ocean of chance. Bracing for each wave, of happiness and of sorrow. Here in the whimsy of this world's every erratic throe. Trying to enjoy the highs. Trying not to tip over on the lows.