Here is how the fire was born: a smear, a crackle, and a hiss. It coils, curls around my house, my land, and I stare as it licks the hills and trees. Its path weaves too quickly for me to distinguish, but I want to scream—I understand, I do. It is a hungry beast crippled by desire. It wants to survive; there are too many ways to survive, and we realize too little. So the fire crashes on, tearing through the green, the bricks, the mud. If the sky should ever burn, then this is its hurricane.