The wind whispers its secrets to the trees while we are still. Still, on the hill, resting on the blanket while our toes feel the grass, just a dot on a map. A pinprick, not enough to unsettle the water. See that man in the red shirt with the blurred face surrounded by green in the heat of the day? It takes a while to find him, after you’ve traced my finger. There’s no camera and no visions no landmark over there, you say. My eyes follow the blue in the sky over to the green and that red. Where no one will see what doesn’t matter; that red dot that climbs is too small for memory and he’s fading around a corner. Quietly, I wonder if the eyes in my head are enough proof. And what mountain holds medals for people who have no care for them.