We like to go for bike rides when the sun is sinking and everything swims in light. There are wheels under us, but aside from the ends of sidewalks--bump down, bump up--we could be floating along a quick river. Maybe we are.
"Name the colors that we pass: Go!"
Golden red, golden green, golden yellow, golden gold, a coppery blue.
In August, after a summer of good rain, everything seems to blend together in a gnarly mash of arms and leaves and branches and legs. It's all touching, straining after another finger, another wrist. We ride by and see ten-thousand embraces.
We are all a little bit desperate this time of year. We still have weeks of heat. But nothing is endless. Not even the sun.
When we glide home there are stars, and we whisper.