Seeing green is rare as hens’ teeth in these parts.
Thanks for the status update, Smokey. I think that was a given.
This is what wildfire sky looks like in black and white.
The day the hills lit up, the sky looked bruised and ash fell from the sky.
You fought fires then, and in an instant the call came. You were gone.
I sat alone on my couch looking out at the haze.
I got a call. Someone telling me to pack.
I didn’t know what to bring.
I could only step outside, peak around the corner of my house and stare at the flames that licked their way up the ridge. Nightfall made them metastasize into a hypnotic beast. I stood paralyzed, wondering if you were ok and if your headlamp was working properly.
"They say a good love is one that sits you down, gives you a drink of water and pats you on the head. But I say a good love is one that casts you into the wind, sets you ablaze, makes you burn through the skies and ignite the night like a phoenix; the kind that cuts you loose like a wildfire and you can’t stop running simply because you keep on burning everything that you touch. I say that’s a good love; one that burns and flies, and you run with it."
“I knew that I was dying.
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as
then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
it needn’t be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
just a spark. save it.”
Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poem
"Where sickness thrives, evil things will follow."
They sat on the back patio. It was dusk and the warm winds breathed in and out, like an ocean tide. She had noticed that you could bet your bottom dollar on the heavy breezes every night this time in late-August. It calmed her and felt cleansing, though it stirred all the leaves and grass around them into a waving, swaying sort of mess. Doors slammed from time to time.
Tea lights lit up the porch, tangled up with the vines.
Her brown leather boots were propped up across his legs, and she kept craning her neck to peak round the porch ceiling to catch glimpses of the nearly Blue Moon dancing out from under shrouds of clouds.
He asked her why she insisted on always going 5 miles over the speed limit.
And sometimes she wondered if she was born with too much fire inside.
He let it burn down, until it nearly got his thumb.
And then, he looked up with his grey eyes and said, “I love the smell of matches.”
And I said, “I love the smell of gasoline.”
We slept with the windows open last night.
After an afternoon hailstorm dropped ice pebbles
And a brief, sunset rainshower quenched the parched earth
You could feel the relative humidity creeping up a few notches
You could feel it in your bones
You could feel it in your blood.
I closed my eyes and hoped the plumes of smoke were getting a bit tuckered out
And the smoldering soil was heaving a little chilly sigh of surrender.
He rolled over on his back, inhaled deeply through his nose and said with pure satisfaction,
"Nothing like the sweet smell of decay in the Colorado summertime."
And I looked back over my shoulder in the dark,
"Are you sure it’s not the scent of growth?"
"No. It’s decay."