without any screen

i’m rich to have grown up with a brother in summers in the back of a truck on land that is humid and wild and lush. there’s an angel cloud photo on film in the drawer from an alabama summer storm. i am trying to explain to a boy from california that leaving this place was like peeling skin from the bone. how the grass smells sweet under heat lightning and rain off the oak trees. falling asleep to a breeze through a window without any screen. how i love to be alive next to you when we hear the earth breathe. if no one came looking for us are the lost days still lost.