My daughter, this
land you were named for is ablaze. The maps on the weather report are
red. The satellite images of the smoke show it blanketing the
continent.
Here at the coast we
are somewhat sheltered. The heat inland draws the onshore breeze from
the vast Pacific, her fog muffling us in the damp. It burns away by
midday, and on the horizon I can see the sickly haze.
