As I ride away on Cathedral Oaks, mounted on my squeaky mountain bike, I turn around in lieu of watching out for cars and realized with slight dread that the tops of orange flames were visible beneath a shroud of black smoke. Far above at its zenith, the moon shone like the sun, but a dying one, and thought more than once that it's a bad time to go back home because cars are going over 50 mph and nearly ran me over.
Oh Jesusita fire. Damn you. Damn you.
My old high school's turned into one of many evacuation sites; me friends are packing their bags and moving out of their homes, not knowing if they will return to an unharmed dwelling; ash is not good for inhaling, so I curse you because I had to bike home in 90 degree weather.
Where is my Blastoise and Feraligator when I need them??
And my little emoticon at the bottom can never effectively emphathize my rage that burns me like the homes down in Montecito and in the foothills.