It was a long, hot summer. A heat wave. In a swirl of heat fever and love of the glorious revolution two friends and I joined a black liberation army.

For long hot days we wandered the streets, tested our weapons, and assembled our uniforms. We did no fighting. We were political, we were protesters with a name.

* * *

Storm clouds gathered. Rain began to fall, cutting through the burning air. I turned to my friend, and said

“The dream is about to end.”

* * *

I woke up.