I drove out to the bluffs to see if I was there watching the sun burn down the river. I would’ve come on run or ride, turning fury into fuel. With less hurt and more heartbreak I would’ve been there shirtless, smiling at the sting of winter. I would have stood at the edge, proud of my solitude, waiting for the last touch of light. Quieter voices of concern, lighter grip of thought, softer touch of fear: who knows what path I might’ve followed that night. But I wasn’t there. The sun fell and I raised the collar of my coat. Turning toward home I looked once more toward the water. In the last moments before ash I caught sight of a silhouette against the flame, looking west. I stopped and stared. He was standing perfectly still at the edge of light. Waiting.