Summer of Our Discontent

We arrive in Summer. Our sweat falls like tears and drops of rain, not fog coming in on cats feet, not tears. We don’t cry, we smolder. We shelter with the mychtrophics. Beside and underneath the ghost plants, we wait. Help is near we are sure. The silence is deafening. We aren’t afraid in the ghost plants in the forest in the Redwoods, in the summer of our discontented ghosts.