It’s fall here, so all the bushes are burning: engulfed in red and cool to the touch. Proud and sentimental and safe. But the world is burning with unholy fire, and I watch crimson flood the canvas through the screen. These are no happy little accidents. This is the history channel in real-time, unsanitized by temporal distance. Freshly orphaned babies, limp in the arms of bewildered strangers. A soccer ball, tearfully unreturned to a now-dead friend. The beeping pulse of life-support gone dark. Screaming and blaming and weeping and terrifying silence. It’s a wildfire, unquenched by tears and prayer. There is no flamed pillar of divine presence— only waste and ash, apocalyptic devastation. I hold a vigil in my yard, stroking blood-red leaves as though lighting a candle, projecting my burning pleas into the darkness. There is only static. Please don’t remain static.
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