When you step out into the night, don’t let the haze crowding streetlights fool you. This isn’t fog swept in from the sea. But of course that’s obvious. We’re in a valley, far from any coast, but what you see isn’t cloud vapors. Look, the moon is red like a cherry lollipop. You may have lost your sense of smell from age or intense nostril-related activities, but pay attention to your lungs. Feel them sink into your chest cavity, lamenting their forced labor to find oxygen in the thick air.
This is smoke. Smoke sitting heavy like a fat cat fully aware of our discomfort. Somewhere over the hills, blazes ravage homes and forests. You’ve heard the news. The brief summer rainstorm didn’t erase years of drought. It’ll be many weeks until the last embers fizzle and spit their hateful ash into the sky. Then there’ll be a relieved calm, until next year.
But right now you must drive home for the night. That’s easy enough. Pull out of the parking lot, wait for a car to pass, obey the lights at intersections glaring like moody Cyclopes. If you don’t look up, you can ignore the lack of stars or blinking airplane lights. You can pretend it’s a normal evening.
The highway is not so kind to furnish that illusion. Distant headlights are dimmed by a murky brown gauze. Bridges are invisible, giving the impression that the black above is pressing down like a heavy boot stepping in mud. Eyes ahead, you can feel the narrow space between road and foreboding ceiling. It makes you cringe as if reaching a hand into the despised space under a low couch, where dust bunnies, webs, and questionable fuzz abound. Surely there’s an end to this? Maybe if you drive far enough, the narrow gap will open to hills silhouetted by glittering stars and crisp tree outlines.
Such a scene is a long drive to find, though. For now, you must wait with the rest of us. For a change in the wind, for rain to push the floating ash into the ground, for firefighters to gain ground on the wildfires.
Listen, I think I hear a rumble. Storm’s brewing.
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