Written in the Buffalo Airport

(Written June 26th -- I'm home just today.)

I'm flying with the U.S. Synchro Swim team. Women's � is there a men's? Girls, really. Though it's hard to tell. The swimmers are small-breasted, narrow-hipped in the manner of athletes, muscled but porpoise-slick, too, as if skimmed in fat. They have an alikeness like a team of horses, or showgirls � it's only partly the uniforms. They each have shoulder-length hair, and they each have it pulled back in tails or loose knots. Like girls they trade lip gloss. They clamber over the airport benches to gather around someone's camcorder. But their faces, when they tune in to the little playback screen, are avid and focused, and they look like warriors.

Suddenly there's cheering. I step out of the gate � everyone does � to see: soldiers. Twenty or thirty coming out on their way to baggage claim. Most in desert fatigues, a few in dress blues. Everyone cheers and claps. The soldiers lift their chins and some lift their hands, too, like royalty. It seems like a call for silence. Everyone � the whole crowd with their shoes off at the security, everyone spilling out of all the gates � does fall silent. The soldiers keep walking. They look tired, blank. Then they are gone. Cheering, distant and echoing, in the arrivals terminal. A few sharp, cutting cries.