It was one hundred degrees
the dry ground matched the sky
we played in the dirt as smoke
rose in the hills and our mothers sipped wine
from plastic glasses
when the red sun matched the fire
embers burned in the trees and helicopters
circled the mountain dropping
oversized water balloons
memories of summer
as the air cooled we crawled into tents
remembering reality where fire was no more than
contained circles of orange;
a strike-anywhere match.
the trees still burned in the morning.
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