Fire hydrant squats red and ready at the corner of Third and Lawson. Half-hearted breezes stir the treetops nearby, but the air lies hot and thick around me still, unmoving. Burgeoning tomatoes hang heavy on their branches, pale green and orange, and the sky arcs hazy and unchanging overhead.
The curve of my sun bronzed shoulder marks a path of pilgrimage for some winged crawly thing; it gains the peak and then flies away, triumphant -- redeemed? The neighborhood smells of heat and lethargy, raspberries and corn tassels, grass and sprinklers and sidewalk chalk. When I breathe in I can taste it all at once upon my tongue.
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