On Monday after work, I pulled over and stopped at the junction of Highway 13 and Pike's Creek to admire the effects of spring run-off.  The ditches, running with melted glass, smelled like childhood and captured sunlight.  Heat poked at my neck and bare ankles.  The soil unearthed at the side of the road sprawled like women caught sun-bathing naked on the beach.  At the bottom of Salmo Hill, the creek was pooling, rising up and flooding the marshland so it looked like a swamp straight out of the Everglades.  I sympathized with the trees that were being choked by the water.  I wanted to wade in and wrap my arms around a stout oak, feel the swirl of water graze my legs as it rushed by, curious about the tangibility of what it felt like to be left behind.
    I kissed Tony.  On Saturday, after I left Harvey during dinner, I went over to Tony's house and practically threw myself at him as if he were a glove and I were a fastball.  He let me grope his body clumsily.  I suppose he knew that I would need to feel for myself the impossibility of us.  His muscles were carved and motionless, and kissing him was as futile as waiting for a stone bird to take off into the air.