The Earth was soft

My backyard was desert.

And after a storm or monsoon, I would walk beyond our cement brick wall.

The ground moved when I moved, not gritty at all, and gave generously where I stepped.

The Earth was soft.

I remember coming across a fire.

It was about a half mile from my house.

The flames blended with the setting sun,

and smoke remodeled into thick storm clouds.

It skewed the beauty behind it.

How could there be a fire when it just rained, I thought.

I couldn't move. I also wasn't trying.

I felt earth creep higher on my toes. I stared.

My chest held me there.

My eyebrows dropped down and I thought.

But nothing was really happening.

I was still. Staring. Nothing.

I kept the gaze. The flame.

The smoke. The sky. The soft rain just a few minutes ago.

The wet dirt. The crack of shrubs being eaten by flame.

The sky. My stare. My hands hanging loose at my sides. My cold legs.

My chest empty. My throat closed. My tears.

I stared.

For nine whole minutes.

I gazed. The rain that was, the fire now.

I stared.

Photo by Jenna Weaver.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.