A cicada's singing a twist of loud static in the shadow out under my window. Across the hill, lit by embers, a plume of billowing, licorice smoke tells me all has been erased. I wait, my fingers blackened, the window blown out by the heat.
This shadow, I, who has been thrust into the ruin of a sky, has crash-landed. It is a black day, and the broken branches crackle beneath my feet.
In this territory, mine for however long it takes for a fire to burn, I catch oncoming glimpses of green. Divesting themselves of the hold of the conflagration, the cicadas are still, done with their urgency.
The smog lifts off over us. Our bones and skin have been seared. There's only the night and there's only the sun.
A coolness squeezes under the branching heat. I stare out the blown window, not to nothingness, but to a movement come though from over the hills, asking me to wait and be still.