July 2018

The rain just past, showers keep blowing off the trees. On the patio table, a banquet of drops, each broadcasting the same miniature sky.

Shirts barely move on the line, sleeves stretched toward the parched earth. A neighbor across the way yells in a language I don’t recognize.

Cloudy and cool. Raised voices over the wall—”You always undercut me!” “You don’t even love me!”—drowned out by a jet on its final descent.