In the field that was a pond two weeks ago, two boys play football (soccer to Canadians). The blonde one slides on the mud, falls onto his back. He laughs and rolls from side to side in the mud, swishing his arms. Like a child making snow angels. Like the dog scratching her back in the grass. His mate watches, bending at the belly to better laugh. I watch, wondering what kind of yellow his jersey is. Mango yellow? Mustard, marigold? When he stands up and hand-shakes his shirt, still laughing, I see the mud is most dense at his spine, emanates from there. Sunflower yellow, and the mud the colour of the sunflower’s seedy centre. I leave the two boys to their play. As I turn away, I see a wistful smile on the face of a passing young man — 20s? 30s? — who watches the still laughing boys. His open navy trenchcoat frames his navy suit. Although his black shoes click with the swiftness of a busy man, his coat does not flap against him or float behind him because the style in trenches this year is knee-length and tight-fitting. Quite unlike the mud spattered loose jersey.