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Brushfire by Kate Magill Parched would be too easy. So, too, scorched. Let me show you, then, what is not here. No birdsong in the backyard, no cicada thrum, no children in the street this time of year. And warmth? No warmth in a place so hot. Nothing round and nothing green. Nothing capable of an embrace. What grows, grows solitary sharp. Back east, the wind blows sticky. You could believe it's someone's breath, a humid presence at the back of your neck. The wind out here is no one. You're eternally alone. It must be the dust bringing tears to your eyes. Don't mention the heat. Draw the blinds. Let the dry branches chatter, the AC hum. Sealed deep, you will not smell the smoke, won't see the flames lapping at the concrete walls. The sirens' howls bring you out at last. Water arcs lush and warps the sun, echoing those decadent fountains, and the bare earth is seemingly sated. Let me show you what is left. A hunger here, stronger even than the thirst: Hunger of bleached bones and stray cats, hunger of those eternally alone, hunger of a dropped match in khaki grass, hunger that engulfs like a sunset too close. Smoke clears, and still such a paucity of green. Come morning, not the blackened trunks that grab you but their utter lack of leaves.
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