The northern horizon is flashing black,
Red and orange, boiling with inky smoke,
Cremating golden trees by the acre
And the mile.
From “Cathartes Aura and the Apocalypse Zoo”, Chapter Eight, Verse Two.
Fire. Red scarlet crimson orange tangerine buttercup fire. I can't write about fire anymore. Two chapters, two-hundred lines about fire. Flames, ash, soot, updrafts, thunderous roars, blinding flashes, asphyxiation, spontaneous combustion, trees exploding when super-heated sap expands.
I read first-hand reports of the 1910 Idaho Forest fires. I revisited pictures I took of the Oakland Hills fires of 1991. I stared at matches.
I didn't want to see a birthday candle or light my grill again, I was so sick of fire.
Thank goodness. The next chapter is all about blue turquoise indigo foaming white water.