July 20, 2021

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In the continuing deepening orange glow the usual colors are so muffled you can only hear them if you close your eyes and try to remember. The sun is up, an overripe cantaloupe on the horizon, and I can see the trees in the daylight, but it’s so diffused not a single leaf is able to reflect it back to my eyes, and even the sun dapples on the wooden floor inside the morning porch leave nothing more than discolored tangelo, like the last coat of apricot finish dried in these odd uneven streaks. Everything is quieter, almost in prayer for the faraway brother and sister forests burning and smoldering, acre upon acre, because forests talk and they listen and they mourn too.