Well, we went to the harbor for Italian ice after work and sat on the pier where the kids do wheelies. One of them asked where we were riding and we said north. He showed us the stone he keeps in his pocket. One of those days that’s like a ghost knapsack, never full. It’s light so long now and the trees pruned I feel like I can see for miles. You know that bridge that’s west of the power lines, by the bicycle co-op? That marbled shirt Mary owns, golden hour apricot, the way she can ride uphill with her hands by her sides like a drunk Frenchman? In winter, when the sewer holes howled so much steam it fogged both Pratt and Light, she’d ride through it like an eighties rock idol, the neon lights behind each single strand of hair, her fingertips. Well, you know how I like the power lines, like giant manufactured insects standing upright, and that when I ride past them on that bridge, I am as tall as they are, as immovable– Don’t mind the strawberries won’t bloom, don’t mind your dried sweat smells like a Missouri mosh pit. I wish I could show you the sky the way I wish I could show you all those other things from all those other times I told you about. It was a good day. God, am I glad to be here.