Harold was out alone on the bike,
silhouetted against the sky like an animation
on the ridge above us,
his jacket flying out behind him.
We leaned against his nephew's truck,
carefully not touching,
although the way he had responded
when I brushed my check against his neck
as we roared through the culvert
lingered in my mind.
The BB gun lay spent on the ground
next to the dart gun
and the blue and white bic pen that had served as a dart.
Harvey's ideas for blowing off steam.
"The installation," I said,
changing the unspoken subject.

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