My dear Gloria,
My trip for the festival was worthwhile, just to see you again. My quip I made at the luncheon about you finding the fountain of youth is all too true.
Your lips, your eyes, your hair have been with me for these many years. To me, I can see my lovely Gloria. I will always remember her as a new phenomenon like some April evening, the downy breast of spring. She was like a rippling brook, singing among willows where kingfishers skim.
But now, the sun is going to rest. I can hear the wild ducks flying overhead, and the mountains were drawing themselves off to sleep, and at night fall would be the singing of the crickets. Somewhere, a Mexican is playing a guitar, and somewhere else a dog barked into the stillness of the night. A queer, eerie sound.
Goodnight, my dear one.