It's summertime down here, wind rippling through livestock and laundry hung air. Though the evenings have been particularly heavy with flash flooding this past week or so.
Each morning I rise earlier and earlier. Mending fallen fenceline and digging drainage for the chicken coops until the horizon light inevitably fades to a dusted nothingness. Without street lamps anything past dusk is too rigidly dark for much else beyond the campfire's edge.
This is likely the most at home I’ll feel anywhere since I gave up pretending you're ok.
So I spend the evenings listening to the frogs dancing in the creosote scented rain, hoping you'll find a way to get ahold of me if you change your mind about me letting go of you.