It’s very quiet. The house hums softly–refrigerator, cat purr, the spouse pacing through the house to check the chickens in the box in the laundry room, lock the front door, look for his phone. It’s dark and time for bed. I tucked her in with sticky, unbrushed hair but managed to wash the mud from her feet. Now she’s loose-limbed and warm to the touch, deep asleep.

All day the light shifted between sickly orange to clear and bright. Uneasiness, everywhere. It’s hotter than it should be and the fitful breezes smell like smoke. The city shut off the surface water supply, everyone is on well water for now. Six thousand acres burned. We’ll sleep with the windows closed.