heat

Smoke signals, Indian script,  a line of pines courted my dreams.

A house burned, unraveled at the seams. Life, not ruined but certainly hardened; as glass is. By fire. A vision from the mountains, reality a few doors down. 

I couldn't write about the Waldo Canyon fire.  I still don't know if I can.  I drove into it, into the fire, the flames.  I drove into the hot.  My girls were there.  There was a storm coming. It was upon us as soon as I arrived, the wind howling and licking, intrigued by the blaze.  It came over the mountain, no one said it would.  Our town was burning.  But it wasn't the town, it was the city, the one with a small town feel.  It was windy the next day; ash covered our yard; the girls were sleeping. The wind got louder, more courageous.  Fear danced in me, I couldn't see a thing.  I thought of a fire sneaking up and in, burying me. 
Burying my girls.
Ashes to ashes

and the dreams still happen, the fire still burns