The smoke. Its odor wakes me. A reminder of all that is lost. I grimace each time someone suggests it can’t get worse, looking to the sky for bits of blue atmosphere and white cloud to sprinkle down, leaving vacant black abyss in its wake. The moans of the earth are surely communing with all that is above. 

Satan’s breath is the newest torment in a year that has become a meme. He blows his fury in unbelievable gusts that wash down an already cracked coast. Swimming in smoke I wonder—who will dare suggest it cannot get worse? Tempting earth and sky to shudder yet again. 

If the sky is falling I cannot see it past the bleak grey. Even now, as I type, I think--don’t stop here. So I don’t. I sit on the floor of my closet, where the air is the closest to clean and I pray for rain. It feels silly, to ask God for this miracle. But then I remember—it’s about my faith in God being able to redeem big things. So I pray for rain--not because I think God will bring it, but because I want to show him I believe he can.