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Transitional season. Cold will become a memory, warm is right now. Right now there is something hungry about the swiftness, the rush hour cars fleeting fast, the terminal velocity of falling too hard. It will hurt, but no matter. The smooth-scooped texture of the dips of the water, the bursts of sun, the frothing will to live. It isn't possible to catch these things from the window of the bus on the commute to work. Biking brings back muscle memory: this is how things are done. This is the way we move. Ascent up the stairs, fling door open, the force of pushing to the ground, flooding to the floor, spilling into the singular square of sunlight on the hardwood, skin to skin escapes precise capture on paper, sublimates into something else, sinks into sweat sinks into teeth something as common as the dirt underfoot, the weeds spring forth from the cracks, the heat dissipates into the shadows growing longer on the side of wall