This. This is far outside my comfort zone.
Killing something. A part of me, maybe.
A new light, though? No one saw that coming, not on this dark blade, this moonless night.
March is not the month for summer to start. The spider webs are thick about towns, thicker in the farmlands; it's like they hatch in waves just so far apart that the poisons don't get them all, and my neighbor's children developed a cough.
The sunrise is always red, now, and the sky stays that way until about noon.
The government(s) explanation is ozone. We think it's the pesticides. I think: No one really knows.
* * *
On a day like tomorrow, when the sun-cooked sweet tea tastes like burned paper and even the ice cream is luke warm, stranger things than cobwebbed cities or bloody sky afternoons begin.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself.