NONFICTION BY KIRSTEN RENEAU

WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT SUMMER, YOU THINK ABOUT

a choir of animal noises on Sunday morning, starlings and sparrows and hawks congregating in worship of the new day. Grass still soft from the night and wet beneath your bare feet. The whispers of those who wake up to worship with the bluebirds. How the sounds of movement announcing early-risers – the unzipping of tents, the rustling of sleeping bags, and soft walk to the bathhouse – blends with babble of the forest that surrounds you all. The smell of coffee brewing somewhere nearby. A day-old sunburn turning your skin hot, cutting across your forearm like the mountains cut the sky. How those hills crack open the morning sun like an egg on an outdoor skillet. Eggs made by your father, paired with fruit the colors of a stain glass sunrise, eaten with your bare hands. When the cantaloupe and honeydew juice collect between your fingers and makes a river from your love line. Licking it off your wrist so not to waste a drop.

Hear the birds?

It’s us they sing for.

Kirsten is a writer by way of West Virginia, now living in New Orleans. Her work has previously been featured in The Threepenny Review, No Contact, Hippocampus Magazine, and others. She's online at www.kirstenreneau.com.