“For other times of loss”

Like all boys, they never walked anywhere, but named a goal and lit for it, scissors and elbows. Nobody won. Nobody wanted to win. It was in their friendship they just wanted to run forever, shadow and shadow. Their hands slapped library door handles together, their chests broke track tapes together, their tennis shoes beat parallel pony tracks over lawns, trimmed bushes, squirreled trees, no one losing, both winning, thus saving their friendship for other times of loss.

Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes, 1962. We think of Bradbury as a science fiction writer, but every time I read his work I’m reminded he was really a poet.