counterpunch.org
On August fifth, Lola and I went for our morning walk. It didn’t feel like morning. It was too hot for morning. It didn’t smell like morning. The winds had shifted overnight. Instead of blowing off the Pacific, they were now coming from the northeast. From central Washington. From Spokane, when Spokane was burning. We were looking at a sky scrimmed with smoke from the fires of Spokane, three hundred and fifty miles away. We were inhaling the ashes of the Lilac City, the smell of lilacs in the dooryards burned, Walt Whitman’s song of the “bleeding throat” come to call.
2 months ago