I saw him in the grass, standing there. He was staring straight up into the sky.

So I walked up to him, nonchalant, attempts at "cool" that made mercury stand still. I asked "What are you looking at?".

"It's right there," he said.

I positioned myself, carefully, next to him and lifted my face to the sky, my neck in front of my body, Adam's apple point to some direction on the compass.

And I looked up. The indifferent clouds passed by in their slow, steady haze, off to their nine-to-five jobs. The smell of chlorinated water sprinkled the air, seasoned it so delicately with something chemical and something that smelled of red pinks and pink reds rubbed between a lovelorn girl's fingers, never knowing of that boy's emotions and feelings and that sense of love that exceeds parental concerns and compact wallets. A flock of birds flew overhead, their shadows cast in motion against his and my face, flying south for the winter or north for the summer, mindlessly knowing nothing more than the exhilirations of feathers and hollowbones and never quite feeling dirt under webbed toes. The wind picked-up slightly, but it dropped it just as slightly, fondling eggs with cupped palms and placing them into a next that they won't remember when they can swallow solid food.

"I think I see it."

But I turned and he was gone, the silence of footsteps on leaves of mint. I let my head fall back again and continued seeing it.

The girl saw me, in the grass, standing there. I was staring straight into the sky.

She walked up to me and asked "What are you looking at?".

"It's right there."

It's right there.