The sun is orange, the sky a textureless grey. Haze. It’s hazy. ‘Haze’ is a kinder word than ‘smoke.’ What does a deep breath feel like? When was the last time you had one? The sun turns red, the sky a uniform pink. Tree line looks rubbed with a cheap eraser. Ash floats soft as snow. Will it bury you? Will you ever see light again? All is greyscale. Lay awake. Toss when you finally fall asleep. You may not wake up. Will smoke consume you? Will embers swallow you whole?