By: Greta Unetich (she/her)
In the thick of the second summer,
The smell of rain hangs high in the air, close to the clouds next to my open window. The fever of a thunderstorm beyond holds my face in its heart-shaped palms.
Mist hangs low in the valley that holds the lake in cupped hands. I have never seen it mist like it does here.
The second summer runs its fingers through my damp hair, as if telling me a promise. The cycle of mist and clouds runs and repeats as the night grows deeper.