Ashley Mae Christensen
My parents tell me to get back in bed. I stand at the blinds without moving slats: watch neighborhood kids run cat-footed in fields and dusk. Sun setting silhouettes christened in purple shadow and wet, wet, wet, sprinklers clicking on lawns. Orange sky yawns—slow as counting stars. When you know something, you’ve taken the first step toward losing it. Buttered cream light through lazy white drapes, darkness is coming, first firefly night.
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