The pathway, in the late-morning light, was colored with suffering, I knew not from where.
It felt wrong to be enamored by a perpetual sunset without shadow born from unexpected and unmitigated tindering.
Not the kind you swiped for.
A fire from somewhere, everywhere else, but here.
Before everyone left me here alone for the summer, we took an inventory and made a list of what I should take from the house, in descending order of priorities, in preparation for the looming threat of evacuation.
It was a list three pages long, the most important thing or five things from each room listed first. Those lists were probably still too long, depending on how much time I would have, if any at all, and if there would be help. The dog and the turtle, the original artwork and heirloom furniture, and uncopied data seemed like the most essential luxuries; the priorities further down the list were less obviously distinguishable from one another when it came to importance, their cardinal order less discernable than the direction of the smoke.
In the meantime, I’d continue what I’d been doing here, an unrushed evacuation, slowly moving stories to the cloud, adjusting their color temperature.