by Diane Destiny

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The Sun The Moon

0.0 x 0.0

THE SUN, THE MOON I can stare at the sun without blinking, the smoke is so thick. I watch it change from pumpkin to vermilion through a thickening pall of smoke dragged down to the sea by Santa Ana winds. The fire storm sucked up moisture from trees, vacuumed out the air from buildings. Everything collapsed where it passed. A young girl, wearing gloves, sifts through ashes, broken glass, looking for her diary. A man weeps over lost photos, the piano that held them a twisted pile of strings. Neighbors hold each other, for a while. At sunset, the desolation forms black holes ringed with shooting flames sweeping over ridges. The rising moon gives little light. It’s not a hearty harvest moon, but a sickle of rust, a pale imitation of the burnt sienna sun. As the fires die down and the smoke clears, no one will be able to stare directly at the sun. The moon will show a little more of itself each night as its rusty tinge fades. By Joyce Stein

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