Evidence

A deputy leads the way up a winding mountain road to a pullout by a bridge. From there, we hike up rabbit trails and shimmy over logs with late spring runoff rushing underneath. At last we come to a grassy fringe of meadow, lush with lupine, buttercups and columbine. The deputy points to a length of floral silk tossed aside, now circled with police tape yellow as butterweed. We search, but we find nothing. No dead body, no evidence of crime. I gaze out over the lake and wonder what lovers happened on this place forgetful as heaven, and left only this proof behind.