As you probably know, fires started through the southeast of France this past Monday, July 24th.
June and early July, punishing heat baked Medville and her surroundings; dust and haze hung for days on end. The natives started to worry and pray for rain.
Perhaps Gaia waited for winds.
I drafted this post July 8th.
Monday evening the hills went up in flames.
The fires were predictable.
The Med’s worries float in leaded sheets going nowhere.
“I will kiss them away” says the sun as he marches into the day from Cap Lardier.
“He will, he will” opines the wind chime in soft bamboo tones.
Silent swallows loop on hurried wings.
A lark tweets nonsense from a waiting pepper tree.
A sunbeam briefly kisses the oleanders and the inscrutable Sago asking forgiveness for a scorching that is to come.
Grass is like tinder.
Fire waits for wind and a spark.
“From north and south trouble is coming”, whispers a fragile Med. “You are killing me” she tells the sun.
“We will burn” shimmer the mountains.
Beyond white skies the sullen sun mutters an answer:
“I do what I have always done. I do not change. Take your complaint to Gaia… but she already knows.”
The Med counts her fishes, pulls dead sea grass, pushes ashore humanity’s offal and garbage, bodies and tar, and sighs.
Yes. She also does what she was born to do: move water, dream clouds, clean, birth, feed, and kill.
For now, Gaia only threatens. She swats at the children of mad semi-gods. She lets them plunder and devour her riches, despoiling and killing. But her patience wears thin.
The folly of that life-form is insufferable.
The reckoning is already sown.
The harvest will be plentiful.