Smoky, early morning. The singe pervades and imparts its scent on all. An eerie quiet is known by the earth, the animals and human beings. They are waiting. For the next burst, the next explosion of orange and crimson to color the sky and consume the hills, the homes and those who dare to fight back.
Adrenaline screams and shreiks but voices turn inward and whisper fearful and frightening things.
The shimmer of ash floats on infrequent breezes and settles like malevolent snow on the world below. And we wait. And we pray. For it to end.