photo by Caleb Woods via Unsplash
We’d seen it happen on the news under sun-burned skies – the scorched earth, the blackened rooves, charred limbs tugged into knots by the heat.
We told each other, ‘They wouldn’t do it here, never here – not to there own people.’
But now they’re coming – the buzz-saw hum of the drones cutting the air, cutting my nerves – and I pull my limbs tight, form my own knots, hoping they miss. Hoping to live.