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47 I know if we sit together long enough I’m going to put my arm around you. We’re going to lose time. We’ll be surprised, later, when the day has changed, that it was ordered and now is not, and we were going a great distance but it was always just another rise on the vague path that follows the ridge. You can see where to go by the patterns of branches and by looking up where it’s still a little light and by picking your knees up and making your feet more sure than the rocks and roots, by the one star that traces from west to east because it’s a satellite, and sureness is a thing to tell about. There’s the fairgrounds, and the airport, then the cornfield approaching the river. The river is hidden by a row of trees. Some days I climb to vantage points and look out at places and imagine myself there. If I walk too far will you pick me up at the top? There’s an abandoned house and a place to park. If it storms I’ll sit on the bench on the covered veranda. The view is the kind I want to see how far a paper airplane would sail—but it wouldn’t go far— and where I see the hills are older than the river. I went up enough I could name all the peaks OUR AIR IS MORE A BRANCH 48 from the helpful diagram. I named them all after people who’d died, then later, renamed them, in spring when I had that much energy, and again on a snow hike and lost taking pictures. We can find my car on our way back from a dinner somewhere else. We’ll see the discovery as part of the pleasure that one thing leads to another, how it’s socks then shoes, then from the house and back, and goodbye-for-real, and the day is next. The evening is after that. There’s a baseball game. There’s a pitch in baseball that is fast as hell, and is more notable for being completely accurate, and actually has no velocity. With a pitch like that, it’s true, there are a million different things to think for a second to hurry after, but don’t. ...

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