no one can breathe properly. we don’t panic, exactly, but there is a growing foreboding.
by August the smell is in our houses. it’s in the sheets at night in our towels in the morning. we begin to taste it in our food: smoked oatmeal, grilled milk.
but the sunsets are brilliant, even other-worldly. they reflect all the colors in the fire-driven sky. we marvel at them, post pictures on Instagram. tropical paradise sunsets in our northern world.
we wait for the rains, but summer holds on for another month. September is dry. the fires continue to burn. in the mathematics of timber and tinder, smoke is our new constant.
this is our new season for our new climate. pray that this is not our final season.
