It smells like a childhood June night, but it is an adult October one.
Soggy, slow breeze through a screen window, moon near full, haloed by the blur of a light humidity and me not wearing my glasses.
I put on the water to boil, some modern magic of pipes and infrastructure that spares my lungs some intimate soot but burns with a blue that confirms an invisible, millennia-accumulated cost. Only long things burn that blue-bright. Periwinkle perish-bright, orange edge flicker.
I will drink some herbal something-or-other, but only after a shot of something that honors how stupidly I live. A sip of something so-called “aged.”
Then: Roil. Whistle. Kill the flame. Steep.