Poetry Break: Happy Landings

Flying in a Blue Dream, 'eh Satriani?

Soaring over It All

Stifling a Sigh, or maybe a Scream

Consumption be done about it, 'eh Woody?

Of Cough, Of Cough, but beware and be-Woe

Is Mitt Mint, or brass and tinsel?

Will BHO make real Change,

Or just sour Dough?

Diving for Strawberry Fields,

Through Smoke From a (not so) Distant Fire,

Gliding in with flaps down and Spirits Up,

Happy Landings to Us All ...

Firing Up

In a mediterranean climate zone, like Southern California, parts of South Australia, and well, the Mediterranean, summers are hot and dry, and winters are cool and wet.

What happens between the Summer and the Winter, though, is Fire.

At least that's what is becoming the norm here in Fiery SoCal.

Apparently, the cool, wet winters spur spring growth, then the hot, dry summers desiccate all that grown vegetation into perfect fuel.  Then, for reasons still not entirely clear, certain humans decide to strike tinder (intentionally or unintentionally) to that perfect fuel.

The result is a hard and often impossible to control wildfire.

Hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars get spent to fight it; homes and landmarks get lost; and sometimes lives too.  Tens of thousands of living things die or flee to other territory (bears in backyards, anyone?)

When the fire is finally contained, whether through human perseverance and skill, or through running out of fuel to burn, we all breath a collective sigh of relief; and believe, fervently, that something will be done to prevent this, or at least to do a better job of fighting the next one.

And then it gets cooler, and wetter, and we forget for a season.