Summer and if the sun were a smoker its ankle would be twisting its knee describing satisfying arcs as it squashed us butts under its big chunky-soled boot but it's not the sun that's smoking. We've been to the markets and we're walking back to the car grass crunching underfoot like natural-grown cellophane. Rain has been rare this season like the Road Works of the sky has sent the clouds detouring and Australia is temporarily off the map. The air is flammable like the gum leaves with their concentrated skeletons of scented oil pumping eucalypt generously. A car passes us, windows open, utz utz pulsating the heavy atmosphere. A tiny white object flicks out and cartwheels to our feet, its glowing end shivering among the browning blades. Husband yells before I have even identified the problem and he's bending and running and throwing that cigarette end back into the car onto the lap of a big red-faced man. "RUN!" yells husband and we are haring like silly teenagers through the carpark to our get-away vehicle and he's laughing and I'm puffing curses and we drive right past the man who is looking around furiously shaking his fist at a culprit he can't find.
Written for Earthweal challenge “RESTORE OUR EARTH”