The heat was oppressive that day, beating down. Unfamiliar on our skin. Unwelcomed within what we knew about this country we called home. When we tried to look too far ahead, the ground bubbled, forming those wavering lines which rest just above the surface. The distant fields only existed because we already knew, To a stanger, there was only the pink gravel directly below which was left unharmed from the sun. “It is the dust, melting. All the footsteps from the winter’s cold

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