by Kaye Miller

i remember July before the wildfires, when we nestled on the porch beneath clothesline, the dripping of dishrags, and tucked ourselves small between grill and propane tank, waiting for that first tin-roof chime of rain. our team of fifteen, before the campers came, our anticipation, o’ sweet pinewood porch, watching the cap of clouds on the horizon. a ghostly pillar of cumulonimbus, slow gliding into camp.

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