Somewhere out in those vibrating heat waves there's the lost child. Wandering the neighborhood gathering discarded fireworks from the 4th, scraping out un-burnt gunpowder into a mason jar. A real hero he'll be, low-voltage garage door wire, 9-volt battery. Riding down the torn up road on a bmx in big knee wading boots, jumping ruts and throw it over the fence. Everyone had their own story for how the cliff came to be, he figured the water did it. A tree overhung the slope, barely secured by scarred roots, below the water was roaring as it fell off into a dark tunnel. Today wasn't a day to blow the homemade fire-jar. The creek was too brown, the air too muggy. Weight off one's shoulders in a place of no expectation, times more like a crayon than a novel.
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