There is a pervasive grayish-orange aura today. The sun’s way of trying to shine through, I suppose. Hurrying to my upstairs window, camera in hand, I try to capture one of the tired, red helicopters, this one’s retardant apparatus dangling valiantly, though almost impotently against the vastness of this wilderness-in-the-city fire. It clatters past, too urgent for me. They’re there still, I know, because their chopping, though distant now, continues, doing the work of tireless heroes.
Only five percent contained, the news reports. It’s on the other side of the mountain from me, so I’m safe, unless I take a breath too deep, too many times. My neighbors go about their business. The mountain’s there. It couldn’t crest our huge mountain and sweep down on our side, could it? It’s the question so many have had to answer with a yes at some point in their history living in this intrepid city of the angels.
What a strange environment! Orange light with pale, pale ash that must be dusted from my windshield if I really must go out for those frozen blueberries. My daily routine isn’t complete without those blueberries and a handful of walnuts in my bowl of oatmeal, a fact I may need to get used to until the fire is contained. I assume, based on past experience, that the fire will be contained. My brain, perhaps all our brains combined, is not programmed to consider the alternative.
Causes Yuma Michaels Supports
NDRC, Southern Poverty Law Center, Greenpeace