An Open Letter to an Ugly Fire
Dear WildFire –
Hey, hey. Slow down a bit there, buddy. Why the rush?
Let’s chat, huh? Have a minute to catch our breaths and a nice cool glass of lemonade. Not into lemonade? Oh, well do you mind if I have some?
I know it’s the summer and you are feeling hot, hot, hot. Raring to go. You are young, aggressive, a go-getter. Some might say…hungry.
You chew up the terrain, expand your reach, and build your empire and leave a swath of pain, ashes and devastation in your path.
You know what, I’ve been ignoring you. On purpose.
Growing up in the dusty lands of New Mexico, I learned to take the arrival of you rambunctious wildfires as part of the natural cycle of the year. It gets hot, it gets dry, then like a rabid parasite you come to visit, leaving an indelible mark much like a drug fueled rock star in a five star hotel.
Only you don’t stick around to pay the bill. You hop another border and get to work burning down something else.
I ignore you because I’ve borne witness to the people who know how to deal with you. They efficiently knock you down, smother your ambition, and wrestle you under control. I heard you were back in town and figured you’d party your way through the cycle and you’d be knocked down soon enough. Managed. Controlled.
You’re a wily one this year, aren’t you? Nimble. Agile. Persistent.
You should know something. You’re ugly, all right? Beautifully profoundly ugly.
After seeing your face last night on my local news, my Bay Area local news, I figured maybe it was time to pay you a little attention, like a bratty child who has finally worked my last nerve.
It’s time to take a look at you like passing by a horrible accident. I don’t want to look and then suddenly I can’t seem to look away.
Damn it, WildFire. Stop. Just…stop. You’ve done enough. More than enough. It’s getting excessive.
Please stop. People’s lives, livelihood, homes, neighborhoods and towns are at stake here.
You are destroying my home state. I’m very protective of my home state.
So look. Just stop. End this. Be gone. Be done. Move along.
We’ve indulged you long enough. It’s time for you to leave.
In the vernacular of my people: don’t let the gate hit you on the way out.
This image terrifies me….
Image from New Mexico News and Views.