Flying Like Indigo Flecks

Justin and I hike the Bay Area Ridge Trail over round hills, through fields spotted with cow patties and the bones of deer and cats. Just days ago, downpour tore up roots and washed mud into the streets; today with every step we kick up dust. The sun burns high and hot.

We pass a cow carcass, torn and rotten and reeking of death. Flies hover over the rib cage; turkey vultures circle and dive and rip off strips of meat. I walk faster.

Justin stops to watch—“Shit. Look!”

The trail steepens, climbs up into the hills over Richmond. High clouds descend—we stride just under them—and a white-grey haze erases the sun.

Above the dust, tiny birds flap and glide. Indigo and low over the drab landscape, they’re the only vivid color—specks of bright on a tan canvas.

We descend into the town of Hercules.

We hitchhike to San Francisco.

*     *     *     *     *

The San Francisco RocketBoat accelerates over the Bay, jumps off a wave like off a ramp. Air, drop, splash. Turn. We thrash through water, curve, accelerate more. Tear into the wind.

My wind-tears fly backward—hit the man behind me, probably. Justin and I sit, hands gripping our seatbelts, in the boat’s front-row. Clouds, pink and glowing, line the horizon; under the red-gold sun, the water ignites.

“Justin!” We bump-fly over to the Giants’ stadium—World Series fireworks are erupting orange and white over the dusk—and a Giants Party-Tugboat floats toward the ballpark, everyone dancing. I lean toward him, fighting the wind. “Justin, kiss me,” I scream. The wind flaps so loud no one can hear me, maybe him. I can’t stop grinning.

He kisses my grin.

Four jets fly over us—then the stadium—in tight unison. Camera flashes illuminate the bleachers, a light-seizure capturing screaming fans at bliss-now.

In joy-heat.