reynardo | Not close enough

The wind steals the moisture from my skin as the sun hides its guilt behind a layer of haze. To the west, new plumes interrupt the horizon and the blue is tinted reddish-brown, confusing in its lack of familiar perspective.

Smoke flows into the hollows like super-chilled mist, concentrating the tang of burning around the low places, undisturbed by the breeze. Yesterday the sunlight at home was orange at home: today it is its usual blue-spectrummed yellow-white, cleansed for a short time at the expense of the lowlands.

Alas, the dispersement usually indicates distance; thus the clarity of the morning's air brings only concern and a constant need to scan the horizon. This evening on the plains I watch the sun's last rays doubly-blood red through the filter of the mountains, and wish I was home.

Logic tells me we will be fine.

Fear has no respect for logic.