The bolded headlines were as black as the houses I burned through the night.

“150,000 acres were consumed in the Woolsey Fire in Southern California”

As my flames scorched the roadsides that were painted with the green brush,

I watched the mountaintops while the Malibu roads shriveled up.

Lobo Canyon Road was where I met Alfred, with his wrinkled hands and tired eyes.

This was the destination of my first victim of three, burning on the ground, age seventy three.

Out in the distance beyond the stretch of my blaze, a car rested, on the highway.

The two civilians, up in flames, facing the swaying ocean that they would never touch again.

Onto Thousand Oaks, with a community already charred and frail,

Like the metal skeleton of the homes that I left in my trail.

The rustling wind sent me to the rolling hills where the rabbits played in the mornings.

Overnight, the green turned to grey, and the grass turned to ash, while the rabbits ran far away.

For all the pictures, problems, and pieces of memories that were obliterated within my reach,

I hope that you realize that you can’t control everything.

November Eighth will be the victim of my anger until the hills return to green,

And not before the air is safe to breath, so that we remember what it’s like to lose everything.

The article ended so simply, that it was like lighting a match.

And whenever there’s smoke, there’s a fire burning.

“The firefighters told us that they were happy to risk their lives for anyone in danger.”  

Because a stranger in a time of need is now your neighbor.