It’s an uneasy evening in the city. Now that the season is fading and the earth is nearly dying, the sunsets are weaker, blue, as though the heat-induced glow of summer’s pinks and reds is too much to muster. The winds pick up, soaring through the streets, catching them all unaware. The lake is churning, walls of water sloshing over the embankments, wet cement under the feet of the runners. Tumultuous, turning, thrashing. I always have the urge to be a part of the lake when it’s like this. It doesn’t seem cold even though the water is a misty gray that seems foreboding. It’s oddly beckoning, a beacon in the dead world. It’s saying, “I’m still alive.” Still alive, but not nearly still life. I am driving up Lake Shore, not seeing anything but red lights in front of me, slowing, slowing, never stopping, slowing, speeding, no, not speeding, slowly slowing, slow. I only see the water, am captivated by it. I break its gaze, the urge doesn’t fade. Even as I drive away from the lake, I wish to be there, to sit and watch the waves break and tumble.