Florida in Winter

From the far side of the lake my house was clearly visible even in the darkness, this towering blue box; its blueness leeched the color from everything around it. Palm trees were silent brown explosions on the gray canvas of the sky. Everything had been laid out for me by some delicate surrealist, all the components moving in harmony; trees slid in front of the houses while the houses inched in front of the clouds while the clouds drifted past the fixed bright stars. Disconnected shadows, going the wrong direction, floated in the lake. The wind was so cool and steady it could only be mechanical. None of it was real.

"In the summer," I said to my wife, and then stopped, unable to finish.
"In the summer it seethes," my wife said.
"And now it's fine," I said. We walked some more. The dog stopped and tinkled a round glittering stream onto the scales of a palm tree. "I think we went crazy again this summer," I said.
"I think so, too."