All summer long, the sky bruised itself against the hills, the clouds smothered the valley—heavy, wet with warnings.

In June, the rivers swelled, reaching greedy hands up the banks and dragging stones into their throats.

By July, the sun peeled back the skin of the asphalt, and the air stood still, thick enough to sip. In August, we watched as fire swallowed a distant ridge,

then another. Smoke leaned into the town. The children rubbed their eyes raw, their fingers smudged with soot.

What’s a drought but a forgetting? A fever but a memory of ice? You carried a jug of water to the garden each morning, pouring it slow, as if trying to teach the earth patience. Each day, the ground cracked wider. Each night, we dreamed of rain that never came.

Powered by Froala Editor

Powered by Froala Editor