The smoke is not enough to choke on, yet.
It's close enough to fill your lungs
to leave you teary-eyed and hoarse.
It's enough that you can look directly into the sun,
painting dusty rose over the horizon.
It erases geography and appoints new frames-of-reference,
it alters your perceptions.
When everything is a catastrophe, nothing is,
and now every hour is golden.