A summer of smoke and headaches. Fires are burning in places I can’t see. Fires in every direction. Smoke roles in on the wind and keeps slipping in, even when the air is still. John smells it when he first opens the door in the morning. I feel it in my head, just left of center above my eyes. The near pain persists, sometimes unfolding into pain and becoming all-consuming, and sometimes disappearing for a while, but never completely gone. I didn’t know if smoke is the cause, but they coincide, marching side by side. When I put these thoughts down, ink on paper, I have to.... cannot not.... acknowledge that my house, my ranch, my job has not burned. For me it is only a hazy horizon.