The Smoke

With the windows open, I could smell the smoke when I woke during the night. Closing them would wait until morning.

Not the best photo, but you get the picture. A smoky sunrise.

Fires are raging to the west, north, and east.

I stepped outside to water some plants. There have been other fires over the years, and enough smoke to warrant closing windows. But nothing like this. I wasn't sure I could stay out there, even briefly, to finish watering things down. This was the worst I'd experienced. Smoke was seeping through every gap in my leaky old house; I taped shut the edges of two doors.

Little bits of ash were drifting down from the sky. Some were recognizable fragments, ghostly tips from redwood branches that had been incinerated. Something jet-black caught my eye—a leaf. It disintegrated in my hand. The closest fire is 10 miles away.

Colleagues have been evacuated from their homes. At least two know people (friends, family) who have lost everything.