I can never see the picture clearly.

The edges are burnt, or the film’s been distorted

either by time or with the heat of the memory.

It’s  certainly not nostalgia that gives those days a kind of sepia filter.

Back then the sun’s gaze never faltered

and the bright white cement beneath us only served to reflect its glare

The heat bronzed us down to the bone and left sweat dripping from our young bodies

It’s perfume alerting swarms of mosquitos that dinner was served

and no amount of swatting or movement could deny them their supper

But in time we became accustomed .

The heat, the constant prodding, and a humidity that seemed to pilfer the breath from our lungs

None of it seemed to phase us

On occasion the scent of rain would fill our nostrils and signal a reprieve.

And for a brief moment the sky would open and return all that it had taken from us

But it was only in passing because soon the sun would retake the sky

And Savannah would be upon us once more.

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