Magicians Father raised bright tiger lilies and roses the color of the sunset, that slow, daily apocalypse. Trumpet vine and Copa de Oro, orange and gold as the wildfires that ate up our dry hills each Fall, when the wind began to howl and rattle our old wooden house. Some nights, we were a family of wolves, protecting old bones. Other times, gypsies, poets, bards— magicians who forgot the words to their spells, who accidentally hexed themselves.
[image: Man & Wah]