There was this fence where we pressed our faces and felt the wind turn warm and held to the fence and forgot who we were or where we came from but dreamed of who we might be and where we might go... Yet we were boys and liked being boys and lived in a Florida town and liked the town and went to school and fairly liked the school and climbed trees and played football and liked our mothers and fathers. But some time every hour of every day of every week for a minute or a second when we thought on fire and stars and the fence beyond which they waited. We liked the rockets more. The fence. The rockets.
Every Saturday morning ... The guys met at my house. With the sun hardly up, they yelled until the neighbors were moved to brandish paralysis guns out their ventilators I commanding the guys to shut up or they'd be frozen statues for the next hour and then where would they be? Aw, climb a rocket, stick your head in the main-jet! The kids always yelled back, but yelled safe behind our garden fence. Old Man Wickard, next door, is great at shooting with the para-gun.
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