My friend walked, business suit, shoes and all,
          into the frigid Lake Michigan surf on
                    an overcast, cold afternoon day in May.
He just went down, but as I think of
          him, I think, rather, of a dolphin head-
                    ing out to the juncture between Naples
Bay and the Gulf of Mexico in the
          warm waters of May. I don’t know why
                    he chose that time of year, as if suicides
consider such things in the absolute,
          resolute, determination of the moment.
                    Who knows why they choose when
where and why as they do, but know-
          ing him, I chose in my mind the place
                    for his choice of time of year. I just saw
him arching up and diving down 
          in the morning sun heading out to all
                    the day’s adventures, as I ever and
always knew him to do, with joy of
          what was to be, but, in this definitive
                    moment, never to return in the even-
ing as did all the other dolphins in the
          family. He just kept arching out farther
                    and farther until I couldn’t see him as
he disappeared into the sunset just
          before the green flash seen so seld-
                    om by those standing in the sand
and surf just before they turn and
          head for home for what might be.