Unmarked Helicopter

It flies along the edges of the neighborhood, circles back overhead, heard as an incessant chatter coming closer and closer. The park closes at eleven p.m. and the helicopter circles back.

An old man finds a girl doing her mantra by the river. He warns her that she shouldn't be out here alone, points to a girl's dress in the leaves by the water, tells her she reminds him of his daughter, tells her English is new to him, that he's here from Greece to visit his daughter, but she will not see him. He was in a horrible accident, he tells the girl, and he still has glass in his skull. He offers her water from his sack, he's coming back home from the grocery store. The river over the spring had been home to Canadian geese that raised their babies quickly and moved on before the cold creep of autumn arrived.  Too cold these days to expect many birds. The old man tells the girl that the most fundamental forces of the universe are dark matter and dark energy, and those equated warm and cold. He tells her the forces of warm and cold make the battle of matter she and he see as seasons. He offers to walk her home. He says that he needs an English tutor, that he has been very sad because his daughter will not speak to him.

The unmarked helicopter hovers over another part of the park, then suddenly hums closer, flying sideways, backing up, droning forward in wide stretches around the neighborhood, spirals of movement approaching along the horizon, shining spotlights into the river.