Fires

The smoke falls heavy.
Not like fog so cool and purple that embraces the earth in dew.
This smoke neither rises nor falls but rides the horizon, filling lungs with ash.
The heat of the summer curdles with the heat of the fire; it sours the day.
The sun’s orange haze is no longer beautiful.
The season’s warmth and scorching trail of flames wring out what moisture is left in the dirt.
The air itself quivers.
The wind throbs.
Fire is opportunity for new to be born.
Yet it also tears life away from existence. Death and birth hold hands as the fires burn.