At the long spar varnished table that once was named for John King, I look out at the dishwater-weeded hills as they shrink back from the scorching sun. It wasn't so long ago that the plush complexion of green blades stood in anticipation of every sunrise.
My nerves still jump if I hear the back fire of an engine. Surrounded by crispy underbrush, I suck in my breath almost to the point of suffocation as a fire engine sounds out its journey. I've been like this since 4th of July weekend. The only thing different is the scenery.
Pine scented landscape cried through parched pride as the weather became scorching. Fireworks for amateurs could be purchased everywhere and despite the dryness of the year, people lined up to buy their arsenal.
No comments:
Post a Comment