This Is How You Know

This is how you know Fire Season has arrived in Northern California. The smell of smoke, faint but unmistakable, drifts through the open window, rousing you from a fitful early morning sleep. The slanted light of morning and late afternoon bends towards the red end of the spectrum - pinkish dappled light on the yellow walls of the house next door; red streaks along the horizon at sunrise, at sunset; a blood-orange full moon rising over a quiet, darkened town. Muggy haze, grimy clouds. A gritty grey layer on the outdoor tables that is more felt than seen; gritty ash on your car that accumulates day after day. Cars and trucks arrive in town streaked with yellow-ochre ash thick enough to write in, windshields wiped clean in wide arcs of surprise. Caravans of dusty stock trailers go by, horse hooves stomping at the stop lights. Mini-vans stuffed to the gills with all manner of items, flattened pillows against the glass, boxes shoved hastily into the back. Coughing begins when you take a deep breath; eyes sting and water. In coffee-shops, phone-photos are shared: glimpses of flames along the escape roads, flames racing over the hills, trees lit up like giant candles, blankets of smoke clutching the fields, choking the roads,  a parting shot of the house as they leave, not knowing what they will find or when they will find it. Meanwhile, you notice towers of billowing smokes plumes on the horizon or are covered by thickened ceilings of ashy smokeclouds, no horizon in sight. Planes and copters sound overhead - steady droning flights heading out for nearby fires. You listen for the Nixle alerts, you check online - how close, how fierce, what is the suspected pathway, the line of fight, who do you know might be in it, who do you know who might need to get out of it, who do you know might need a place to stay, who might need new furniture, clothes, dishes, who might need a new house. This is how you know.

There is a full moon there, that orangey little dot next to the house.