A bubble on my ankle, slightly red, hard to see. Itchy. Soft and squishy. Immediately I think it’s probably a tick. Engorged and floppy, ready to be picked. Or a worm, burrowed, safe and warm, or spider eggs buried against the bone. Thursday spent standing in tall grass and weeds, in brush and trees. Just as likely, it’s poison ivy. A gentle squeeze, it bursts, it rips, it oozes, drips. The itching spreads, my hands, my head, Each blemish explored, prodded then picked. A bump on my neck, raw from checking, is it a freckle or something more? My bubble drains. It’s damp and yellow; it dries on my skin in a jaundiced stain. Nothing seems to be alive, spreading, creeping, threatening my life, my thoughts, my brain.