IT’S A SAD, LITTLE, WRINKLY HEART,

says the barista when I admire the décor riding the surface of my green drink, but I respect her artistry and stare at its persistence although I’ve now savored enough to be recorded in kelp-colored residuals —a foam of bubbles, miniatures— all around the upper third of my tall glass, a seashore for my matcha, tide receding.

The morning light entering the coffee shop filters through suspended ash of forests burning at a pass to the north. What recently made trees stings our eyes and nostrils. Each breath of this air meets a yearning— Let it float, this heart, until we all arrive at the far side of every fire.