We come to a clearing, thunderclouds above                  an open field. Expecting rain, we watch                                   instead the grasses browning, streambed slowlyemptying. A scattershot wind brittles                 the leaves, carries the smell of the nearby factory.                                     An egret dries like a towel over a branch.In the sticky heat ghosts tumble onto the grass,                 immune to the air, the smell, bringing with them                                   their lovely scars. It rains so little now,the lawns and sprinklers of my childhood seem                  a travesty. And yet, there they are, there we are,                                   ghost-girls running in the ghost-grass. How flammable,the past. Each blade an ember. Each power line                  a tiny disaster, jutting through its tree.