They met one another one day, heat lightning astride the treetops, Indian summer at dusk. All prior acquaintance seemingly transfigured in that light. They sat together in a meadow shaped like the palm of a hand, speaking softly of childhood— of turbulent waters, a red balloon and a red string—their touch as soft as the breath of the breeze, despite the gathering storm. When they kissed, a spark of static stung their lips, and a rush of swallows parted. There was no telling if this was merely an extension or another beginning, some kind of beginning again.