Everything seems like it was wrung out and hung to dry in the sun. The dried grass crinkles like tissue paper as you walk . The soil is not spared either, it's cracked in paper thin layers that turn to dust under your steps. There is a sound, bell-like, that leads you to a small stream. The water is clear all the way through, sitting still. Just being near the water cools the summer air. You try and get closer to catch your own reflection in the still water but a stale breeze blows a carpet of cottonwood fluff into the surface of the stream.
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