I love the dark recesses of a room on a show like the Young and the Restless. I love the flying hair of the Bionic Woman. I love the attachments of song to image. I love the stillness of a scene. I love just standing there. And I did, from the outside of a house, near a tree. There were two men inside the house, making love. At times they were soft and gentle with each other; at other times, violent. I watched only for a moment before I noticed the little red wagon parked next to the garden hose, which was coiled along the left bank of the house, just next to the small steps leading into what I assumed was a service room or garage.

I loved finding the red wagon. I loved lifting it’s handle seeing its relative newness. And knowing their were no children in the house, I found it intriguing. Did it belong to one of the men. Which one? The shorter dark, swarthier one or the blond with the long limbs and golden haired chest? Along its chassis, in white lettering was the name Radio Flyer. A classic, I presumed. I thought about this for awhile. It wasn’t that I would disturb the men if I started pulling it along the house. For I’d often done things right in front of them that they never noticed. I’d even been in their bedroom when they’d been having sex and they hardly batted an eye (except to each other) In fact, no one in this town seemed to notice my activity. And in particular, this house was far from the main road. And at this time of the day, nearing late afternoon, they’d done all the farm work. The cows had been milked. The barn swept and maintained. I was basically alone at my own disposal. And that of the little red wagon.

So, I took the wagon by the handle and began my journey, pulling it along the footpath that the men had worn from the service door to the front of the house, where a large porch met me and my red, shiny conveyance. I waved at the potted plants. I waved at the black and white cat that watched me, as it sat along the northeast banister of the porch.  I stopped and asked her if she’d like a ride. She yawned and looked the other way, seemingly bored. So I continued. I passed the porch onto the other side of the house where there less windows, more higher up. for the second floors. I loved the second floor. This is where I planned on staying the night.

Preens massage their way through paths, you see, through spaces, in much the same way as water. Only we are not as clear. We take on many shapes but our true one tends to frighten humans. Except for special humans. I suspected one or both of the men making love to each other might be one of those special humans. But I wasn’t sure.

So I decided to stick around and see in the current form I was, the unnoticeable form, the safe form, the form that massaged through.

I rounded the house and found myself passing underneath the bedroom window of the men again. Each time I passed underneath it (for I went around the house probably hundreds of times until the night came) I heard the men, their catches of breath, the bed springs creaking. They were in it for the long haul.

And so was this preen, whose quality for loving things they loved might sometime, this summer, prove vital in their lives. And my own.