The brush under our feet is prickly and dry. I’m holding your hand as we walk through the field out to the tree line. It hasn’t rained for weeks and we know there isn’t any expected in the forecast. I feel splinters entering my heel, but we don’t stop. The sepia lighting of evening makes everything a still-life fire. My breath is hot and heavy hanging between the space of our steps. Your palm is weak and sweaty resting against mine. I feel the ache of thirst but it is just one amongst many aches that we ignore. The trees approach us and we ask permission to enter. The shade tracks us and our bodies fade. Behind us the field is ignited by the descent of the sun, an orb that is as round and red as the eye of indifference.
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