Author: Peter Farrar

I hadn’t noticed your sunspots. Sprinkled over hands the way soil speckled skin.

I don’t remember hearing the thunder. I felt it, swelling and buffeting close to me.

The bus rumbles under him like an irregular heartbeat. He reverses, watching the cyclone fence edge closer in the trembling rear vision mirror.

Truck tires roll heavily over the bridge. Like a roll of thunder during a dry storm.

The rains broke but it was too late. They’d approached from horizons, shadowy and slanting, turning, and billowing.

Tree imagined jumping through the window.

It was the smell I noticed. It arrived before the seismic wave of sheer heat.