We meet when we both fall out of the same oak tree overlooking the Buffalo River in the midst of a storm that gives everyone a brief reprieve from the plague of locusts. Locust carcasses lie strewn about the footpaths. When we land, the crunch of their husks makes us shiver.
Your left hand swats my right foot. I think of the game Twister just as my head connects with the knotted tree root jutting out of the earth. Ouch. You whisper your regret, as if you could have chosen to attempt to break your fall by placing your hand elsewhere. Maybe we should've been more careful as we stared at one another in the shelter of the oak. The locusts, crisp under the tree’s canopy, are sharp on our skin. We stand up and catch our breaths, look at one another embarrassed, and unhinge locusts from our legs as the storm slows.
Later, you'll say that we were connected temporarily, but long-term like the storm on Jupiter. But now, the sun pokes through the clouds and we are copper again. We're only conscious of our breathing and whether we're walking together in time.