Stubs of straw spurt into a beige mat. Plants wither, reaching up a fence, roots pulled. The breeze is plush and cool. Eyes blur, and heatwaves wiggle. Flying low, a darnerfly assesses the damage. Undulations circulate through leaves and branches. As muscles relax into the evening, a soreness is noticed, sinking into a demi-relief, that is somehow better. There’s a purr from the traffic. Empty, pensive thoughts circulate with deep breaths. Oxygen tastes like ripe melon.