You take a walk through an addition in Aboite and it's just a white-bread suburban wasteland. Because the thunderstorm has passed and the air smells like electricity and clarity. The sky's a little messy, not the aquamarine that surprised us last night, but still, back to blue scattered with the ragged ends of storm clouds. And the way the last raindrops balance on the tips of the evergreen by the sidewalk, the light catching them as if Christmas had come in summer. And that light -- my God, the long slanty light of an August evening, a fulsome, rich yellow we'll only dream about in December. The clearing is so new, me and Molly have the place to ourselves, the sidewalks dappled in shade, empty of other dog-walkers and power runners. We do a big block circle around and head back home. Now that I think about it, I hate stereotypes.
Wrote this for The American Scholar haiku contest and it lost so you might as well, too.
Green, trees love you, green;
Still, chlorophyll will fail you --
Summer’s bloody fall.
I just want to be able to tell my grandchildren I once wrote a blog post that exploited Garcia Lorca, William Faulkner, and Florida Georgia Line.
We were livin' every minute of the night / Like there might never be another / We were runnin' all the caution lights / We were learnin' to fly with a little tail gunner