By Justin Mundhenk
It was the mail carrier churning gravel that stirred us, and we spilled into August scaring up grasshoppers and pulling pincers off crawdads with ears bent open in case Mom yelled, but when she did, it was only “Supper” in that voice like a ragged wash cloth, us holding out hope through the whippoorwills and crickets until she clicked our light off and became a sound at the other end of the house that would also disappear—another day was coming, same as the last.
Justin Mundhenk lives in Ohio.