Pyromancy

The mountain above our house is on fire. This morning it was a powdery smoke bloom among the chaparral; this afternoon it was darker, thicker. By nightfall the widened line was like an open horse shoe. At sunset, the ash in the air seemed to glitter; the sun light slid under the smoke. The sun seemed to outline the smoke-clouds in rainbows. It's a type of pretty that hurts. Tonight we are sleeping elsewhere.