Shoes squish and splutter across the muddy grass-pressed bank. With every step my sockless toes are washed and sprayed like dirty dishes in the sink. The water squeezed back and forth recycling remnants of Mr. McDowell’s pond into a natural green clean machine. I feel that I can wiggle my toes inside their slobbering cases the underside of lace and tongue of sneaker canvas lick along the gravel path back home until they’ve scrubbed their subjects raw and red. I tear them off. They smell between soured water used to scrub off dinner plates and a cracked bucket from the barn burrowed in a film of rainwater. So I arrange them on the brick back porch to bake beneath the sun’s sizzling scorch.