The park smells of summer: barbecue, the breathing plants slowly exhaling green, the baked asphalt releasing its held heat up into the declining sky.
We lie on my old Navajo blanket (NB: blanket contains no actual Navajo workmanship) and stare up into the fuzzy clouds, looking for faces and counting the jets. A half-moon sails the clouds, its face cut by a contrail, while beneath both of those, closer to us on the earth, a kite bobs and weaves against invisible currents above the meadow.
"So what exactly is in a contrail?" Katie asks, snuggling deeper into the crook of my arm as another jet passes high overhead, and I sigh in happiness.