The remains of the day (leaving New Oxford.)

June 17, Lakehurst.

Leaving New Oxford, Pennsylvania, two weeks ago, there was the trace of the ring on the ground, and nothing else. The field was empty, it was raining and everything was bathed in quiet darkness, and in the forlorn morning the shavings were all that was and is not anymore, the trace of Time etched on the gravel as if by a disconcerted artist, who upped and left its work not even begun, just traced.
I took the picture leaving the lot, asking the guys to wait a bit on our way out, and forgot about it. I don't know why I remembered last night, and went digging for it.