i miss the air tinged with smoke, remnants of burning prairie. i miss all the trees infested, then splintered, cut down. when i return, the street is bare, but i am relieved to smell the air sweet with thunderstorms. the glowing blue of evening even the ants that crawl across my skin when i am too still. in fear of falling once again into the pull of inertia, i took my time, listened closely soft voices in morning, wind whispering through leaves i was grateful when the birds returned. i let pain, slivers of it, dissolve slowly. these last few summer nights, i squatted bare legged by the window wishing stupidly for fireworks, a fistfight. last week i took off my glasses and thought this could be any street. now the quiet is an indictment it was never enough just to mourn
