on my street. This year, I’ll hang mine

on Juneteenth—an act as hopeful as rising

each morning and walking to work between

the houses and cars, not because my job’s

a drag, but because I can: I can walk down

the street without fear. I’ve been doing it

my whole life without a thought. Today’s

Sunday and this creek bottom hike does

not offer escape because after I can’t breathe,

from what do I so urgently need release?

Overhead, a thin bar of clouds hushes

the warblers in the spruce, though, really,

they have few predators. They turn back on

when sunlight slips beneath the dark band

and flares like a match just above the

ridgeline. It gives one short glimpse of

Paradise, before burning it all down.