delilah_banks

Tinted red smoke pile in layers above the Rockies. Swilring around the sun, it creates a perpetual evening at noon.

The heat of the summer combines with the heat of the fires. The winds blow the ash into the hair of the beggars standing on the interstate ramps trying to get somewhere where there are no trees; where it rains. Everyone heads West, hoping to escape the choking smoke that will settle for months in the valley.

The fires creep down the ridges, inching toward the houses built by missionaries, home-steaders, my father.

It's never comforting to wake-up to the smell of campfires and a haze that's depicted in the thought of hell.