RISE by Bronson R. Ash. Not just on a Wednesday, on nearly every gentle summer morning. The sky mimicking the ground mirrors to the radiant brush clouds of burnt sienna. Out on the reservoir refracting infused aerosols inhaling smoke through echoes. The loud crackling effortless ridge lining suppressing generational risk Land lost and at the same time, experiences. Having to find a way of breathing calmly. The swabbing. Salivary glands giddy. Not being able to share the same air. Kevin Borchert