June was in their wings, salty and fresh, not yet to be weighed down with worries. I can remember when seagulls swooped through the haze, and the taste it left in my mouth. Those seagulls carry summer always, and they were hungry and searching for something, like the one that dove down and stole my pickle the instant my back was turned. But June and I could not be angry with them, or at the sand that sucked our calves dry, and on the bright days made a beach that blinded our eyes. The sand that made me scratch my behind until she and I risked burning our soles making our way back to the waves that could wash those tiny grains and pains away. It was usually in the orange of an ending day I would ask June questions with no answer like, "If cats always land on their feet, and toast butter side down, what would happen if we dropped a cat with toast strapped to its back?" I was a thief, and I never told her I stole that from Steven Wright, or that I was wrong for stealing hearts behind her back. From the tops of hotels I can see clearly now, with a seagull's eye view of the waves crashing in like memories and the undertow sucking them away. Virtually, reality was measured in the number of plucked pickles, grains of sand, and unanswered questions that can only be regretted, not counted, or relived.