Still leaning back in the chair by the window, watching the parade of thunderheads floating over my house. Wondering if the lightning sparking over the hills will ignite them. Shane’s sleeping. I’m thinking. And drinking mudslides on ice and sifting through piles of things and boxes.

Some forms of accidental sub-surface steadfast ideas surprise me; the ones that tap you lightly on the shoulder in the dark after you thought you’d walked away then disappear again before you turn to look — as if only to remind you it’s been hanging loosely and quietly there by its one original thread.

Sparks Farmer’s Market kicked off today. I might get over there this weekend to browse a little. Maybe just me and my super slick farmer’s hat and crusty muddy boots and a pocket full of wadded up dusty cash and come home with all kinds of weird unidentifiable things.

Sitting, waiting patiently for a traceable cue of a wildfire. Of the scent, or the sirens.

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You know how I used to be able to tell, at night, if the smoke I was smelling was a new wildfire?

It was the traffic lights. I’d stop and look at the lights, and if there was an unusually large, soft glow eminating from the light, chances are there’s a fire somewhere, because there is no standing moisture in the air in the deserts of Nevada.

The thicker the glow, the closer I was. And so I’d drive around gauging the glow of traffic and streetlights, figure if I was getting hotter or colder, and find my fire in the dark.

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I think it’s pretty safe to kiss off the rest of the weekend when you’ve spent four hours or more sprawled out across the floor, blinking at the ceiling, sick and pathetic, making ridiculous noises trying to breathe through your stuffy nose, and the breath coming out of your mouth is so hot it burns your lips and even the slightest breeze through open sliding glass doors by your feet feels like it was sent down straight from heaven and the only time you see another human being in your house is when you, barely coherent enough to notice (because you’re on the edge of death, remember), see some blur of a person lean into the room just far enough to douse you with Lysol and wave it around the room before disappearing again into the abyss of what was supposed to be your fabulous and refreshing weekend.

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