The Bitter Heat of a Golden Afternoon

The morning sun is not yet a tyrant; it lingers in the mist like old perfume. I stand before him, my beast of burden breathing rhythmically, a warm cloud rising from his nostrils that smells of wet earth and iron.

I adjust the buttons on this beige armor—the suit they expect me to wear when I return to the city's concrete veins—but beneath it feels nothing but raw skin. He watches with eyes like dark glass pools. There is no judgment there, only a heavy silence shared between those who know how much heat hides in summer air.

The wind carries dust and pollen here; soon we must walk back into that world where everyone lies about everything except the weather. But right now, standing here while sunlight burns gold through trees? We are both free enough to feel things deeply before time catches us again.

Editor: Summer Cicada