he threaded dangerously between ash and oak , beech and alder , crunched through picnics and sent flying bottles of warm lemonade , coke and cider , throats erupting in his wake , spittle and foam casting surf on the humid air , suspended for hours like toy clouds or wool snagged on fishing lines , the thunder of voices slow to materialize , fast to decompose as he broke from the storm his passage stirred and sped over the bowling green , nearly tripping .