as last summer ended

I just burped. Now my mouth tastes like canned meat. Not the meat one sees at a deli but the sort of shreds in metallic protein taste that lingers in the back of my throat and upon the roof of my mouth. The sky is clear and pale blue while the leaves on the branches of the tree outside my window dawdle in the final weeks of the summer air. Birds chirp and there’s a cricket singing incessantly at quite an impressive pace. Then a car passes the north side of my parents’ home and continues west toward the main road adjacent to the subdivision. I close my eyes and hear my brother’s asthmatic cough resounding from the family room where the television and most likely computer screen are titillating his imagination.

[I remember reflecting on this August 6, 2012. I’m intrigued to learn how sounds will change as time progresses.]

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