The air is acrid, thick with smoke. It’s been like this for weeks now and my throat and lungs feel covered in thick soot. It feels like the entire north state is going up in flames. Day after day, I wonder, is the smoke going to lift?
Yet I count my blessings if all I’m dealing with is the smoke. The fire isn’t headed in my direction. People have lost homes, animals have lost habitat. The trees are and hillsides keep burning. And men and women from all over the country are putting their lives on the line trying to get it under control.
Ashes are falling in the yard, but they’re coming from a distance. The smoke is suffocating, but sometimes in the morning it lifts for a while.
One of the ironies of destruction is the awful beauty that comes with it. Sunsets bleeding red over the mountains. A moon burning amber. The evening smoke, that even as it oppresses, pressing down, seeping under the doors, through the windows, swirls through the twilight in ghostly, violet swirls.