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 under heat lightning and rain off the oak trees. falling asleep to a breeze through a window without any screen. i wonder if no one came looking for us are the lost days still lost. how i love to be alive next to you when we hear the earth breathe.