The last cicada branch landed on the burning heap. Fabian’s hands were sore. Exhausted, the ground welcomed his ass.
Soon, the birds had a singing companion. Fabian was tuning a sad song.
The woods and sticks kissed each other with flames. The gesture extended to a dry leaf not part of the heap. Excited, other leaves joined and then the bush was on fire.
The heat felt abnormal.
Spinning, Fabian met a glowing audience.
