Suburbs Curled Up Against the M1

The sun burns a hole in the charred sky. The leaves are breathing their first gasp of air in weeks. Does this winter’s rain make up for summer’s drought?

In my backyard, if I frame my fingers just right, the ceiling disappears and the walls fall away. For just a moment, all I see are the treetops. But then the rain pelts the roof and someone slams a door, and my fingers shift. The fence reappears, cutting the trees off at their trunks. Between each raindrop, the whisper of the motorway resumes. There. I bet you hear it, too.