Wildfire

Wildfire;

Flickers in the distance, small enough to ignore.

They hum with the warmth of belonging,

and dance like celebration on the hills far away.

Why rise from comfort to battle smoke and ash?

Why not let the embers smolder,

their glow familiar, their crackle soft?

The flames, though unseen, surge higher.

They climb the sky, swallowing the horizon.

The night is painted orange.

//

A whisper.

A hiss of dry pine catching fire.

The sharp pop of bark bursting open.

Neighbors smell the smoke long before you see it.

But the wind is in your favor-

for now.

//

Wildfire;

The heat on your neck is not imagined.

The air tastes of metal and dust.

Every breath is pulled through a sieve of cinders.

The blaze moves faster than thought,

ripping through fences, over walls,

finding the places you swore were safe.

//

Isolation.

The bucket in your hands is far too small.

Your arms are heavy.

The fireline grows teeth.

Then-

a shout in the distance.

The thump of rotor blades.

Dozens rush forward,

carrying water, axes, and hope.

//

Wildfire;

The burn is not always seen from the road.

Some flames rage only in the mind,

gnawing through timbers no one else notices.

And yet, if left alone,

they can topple the homes of others,

leaving only ash where peace once stood.

//

It takes a village to fight these fires-

to watch the treeline,

to raise the alarm,

to pour themselves into the flames until they fade.

Even then,

smoke may linger for years,

reminding you of the night the sky turned red.

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