Reflections on a wildfire
The world is the wrong color.
Light shining in through windows casts an orange pall over everything. When you step outside, you blink, and look at familiar sights, transformed. It is as if someone has taken the color balance knobs and twisted them, until nothing is quite as you remember it.
Even at the height of noon, the world is gray. There is just light enough to see the particles of ash, floating slowly toward the earth. You feel yourself start to cringe as you walk, a tiny tightening of your shoulders that gets worse the longer you look at the sky.
The air is charred, burnt. As you breathe, you start to clear you throat, a harsh, scraping sound that becomes a cough as your lungs reject the corrupted air. The earth is purging itself, becoming new, and humans and their homes have no place in it.
The world is a brand new color.
Light shining in through windows casts an orange pall over everything. When you step outside, you blink, and look at familiar sights, transformed. It is as if someone has taken the color balance knobs and twisted them, until nothing is quite as you remember it.
Even at the height of noon, the world is gray. There is just light enough to see the particles of ash, floating slowly toward the earth. You feel yourself start to cringe as you walk, a tiny tightening of your shoulders that gets worse the longer you look at the sky.
The air is charred, burnt. As you breathe, you start to clear you throat, a harsh, scraping sound that becomes a cough as your lungs reject the corrupted air. The earth is purging itself, becoming new, and humans and their homes have no place in it.
The world is a brand new color.