Smoke
Smoke
These weeks becoming months the clouded horizon merely thickens or thins – not with cloud, with smoke. It isn't true that smoke's evanescent, ethereal. Not this smoke. It blots out the sky; fluctuates, fades a trifle, only to come back denser, higher, closer. Where there's this smoke, there are certainly
fires; we can smell them. On our screens we see them tower, spread, engulf.
We live with it, begin to stop mentioning its presence to each other, knowing others in areas around us are worse off, this little town so far spared, although some smaller burns come close before being dowsed. Meanwhile we stockpile face masks, pack our emergency bags, conserve water (even before restrictions are announced). My own breathing remains unaffected – because, paradoxically, I already need to use an inhaler daily.
Eventually, as time goes on, I notice I no longer have to glance at the horizon in order to know when the haze presses close or lifts a little. It has entered into me, part of my person. I wa…
These weeks becoming months the clouded horizon merely thickens or thins – not with cloud, with smoke. It isn't true that smoke's evanescent, ethereal. Not this smoke. It blots out the sky; fluctuates, fades a trifle, only to come back denser, higher, closer. Where there's this smoke, there are certainly
fires; we can smell them. On our screens we see them tower, spread, engulf.
We live with it, begin to stop mentioning its presence to each other, knowing others in areas around us are worse off, this little town so far spared, although some smaller burns come close before being dowsed. Meanwhile we stockpile face masks, pack our emergency bags, conserve water (even before restrictions are announced). My own breathing remains unaffected – because, paradoxically, I already need to use an inhaler daily.
Eventually, as time goes on, I notice I no longer have to glance at the horizon in order to know when the haze presses close or lifts a little. It has entered into me, part of my person. I wa…
