Summer showed up unattended. A tepid mood burning blue in the pool water, some song from the 80s lightly skimming the periphery. As if everything was contingent on this stillness. As if you weren’t carrying so much. The air changes but nothing else does. A meteor will fall tonight, break the atmosphere and carry a descendant star to its death on a single blooming magnolia chosen for the task. For now, the sky pretends to be more than it is, a tweak brighter for you, in case things weren’t clear enough. How real can anything be given the choice?