I don't remember the sky without those man-made clouds - those airplane slug trails that lead from concentration to dissipated sky dander. But I remember the water. Creeks and runoffs slither and coil in my mind's three-ring scrapbook — that oily film that glittered on the standing water - that eerie foam near the rapids. I can feel the rough sandbanks on my toes and the lurking fear of the cottonmouth nearby. The road noise moves him, and the slap of his body on the green-brown shallows snaps me out of myself. And I run like hell all the way to my bright blue bedroom in that pink brick ranch and shiver with life.