When we were kids, we would ride our bikes home from school, turn into my driveway and jump off, legs still pumping. We’d run out behind the rows of identical suburban houses and crash into the scaggy strip of woods that hid out behind there. We’d have a secret path that imagined was once traveled by Indians. We’d run through the branches and stop dead when the trees ended. Then we’d drop to our knees and part the wheat like deer. We’d find our spot and press down the plants and just lie there, looking at the sky. We’d just lay there, our thin small bodies breathing heavy, arm outstretched, blood pushing through our veins so loud we could hear the sounds the individual cells made as they rushed through our bodies. We’d lay there and sweat, and feel the bugs and pieces of dirt and chaff stick to our bodies. We’d lay there, just watching sky, imagining we were wherever we wanted to be.