Along the Atlanta creekbeds the elderflower has thrown its first cream-colored heads into air that still cools at dawn. Tha an samhradh a' tighinn — summer is coming. The same week a war pauses without ending, a server farm targets a thirsty city, a child is locked out of a bathroom. Both true at once. The light moves the way it has moved for ten thousand Mays before this one, indifferent to who currently holds the microphone, and still — still — patient as the slow opening of a hand. Witness is the first form of refusal. You do not have to fix what is happening. You have to refuse to look away from it, and refuse to be only one thing while it happens.
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