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I woke this morning to hot, still air.  Tinderbox.  Twigs stretched and aching on wilted trees.  The tinge of brown and threat of eruption everywhere.  Turning on the computer and looking at the photos of Colorado, I almost felt relief.  There, at least, the tension was breaking.  If nothing else, there was movement.

Remembering last year, the ashes drifting down like snow, the smoke, coughing, and apocalyptic flames on the hills above Santa Fe, I  ached for the people facing the nightmare.  I sent a prayer via facebook.  What else could I do?

The day stretched on.  There was no wind.  The heat was relentless.  This is not the desert I know.  Tempers flared.  Proportions were skewed.  Small things got big and big things were tabled.  We watched the clouds.  We soaked cloths in ice water and wrapped our necks.  Errands were impossible.  Traffic was insane.  The air conditioner, on full blast, muted conversation and wasn’t enough.  Music, filtering roughly through the stereo in my old, beat up pick up truck, scratched — brittle as the dry grasses and just as rough.

We are waiting.  For a storm.  A fight.  A wind.  For night and its liquid dark.  For some soothing relief.  We talk about Florida.  We envy the rain.  We move oh so slowly.  It is too dry for sweat.

We think about precaution, packing valuables and making ready.  There was, afterall, a fire in the neighborhood a few days ago.  But we don’t.  It is too hot to move.  We love the pinons overhanging the patios.  They are rare, precious shade,  bird havens,  things that survive in the desert.

I wrote the other day about what it means to have a house to myself.  Today, I am thinking about fire season and what it means to have a house at all.  My thoughts and prayers go out to Colorado.  My heart cries for rain.