Forest Fire

I came home to a forest fire.

The woods outside, choking on the fumes of their own burning bodies seemed rather unperturbed as the fire crawled higher. Under the evening sun which should have only been warm enough to kiss our tired skin, charred leaves fluttered, and so landed on the third floor corridor. Walking down the aisle that is scattered with waste, the clicking of my heels echoed and from far away, I could hear the crackling of burning wood.

From my window, before the clear sky is a wall of smoke. Painting the sky grey with its body, I am patiently waiting for it to rain. It is so bright that I can't keep my eyes open, but I'd like to believe that the sky is truly grey.

I wonder if the birds outside, having been smoked out of hiding, are panicking. Their high-pitched chirps tell me nothing. After all, I'm not a bird expert.

Suppose the wind, with its gentle fanning, has carried the smoke past my rectangular view. I can see how blue the sky is again.