#66

Somewhere, a flame pops into existence. A small, jittering newborn, uncertain. It crackles with hunger. And it eats. It grows. It climbs trees and saunters through brush. It's fingertips lick bright green leaves and they cough blue smoke in response. It explores. And before it knows it, it owns everything, consumes everything, becomes the deliverer of death. Ancient trees that survived storm after storm, the assault of hungry beetles chewing holes in their bodies, woodpeckers with their razor sharp beaks, all bow, their memory released into the sky, all that they've seen and experienced blending together into one collective. And together they travel. Miles and miles, riding the wind, swirling around the beating wings of birds in flight. They land in a city like gentle pirates, fogging the streets. People in suits carrying briefcases, taxi drivers, humans without homes all squint their eyes, breathing in the very souls of a thousand trees. Smell the seed of fire that released them. And all gaze though the haze, a haze they've seen before in a thousand dreams, and wonder at how little difference there is between asleep and awake.