ash

There was a fine layer of ash on my car this morning. Not dust, actual flakes of singed national forest ash. It’s like the sky had a bad case of dandruff and furiously scratched its scalp over Portland. I breathed in the ash while opening my car door, and when I got to work, ash was gently falling like snow in the parking lot, the little fragments hovering and swaying in the air before alighting on the pockmarked pavement of the back lot. I tried to breathe as little as possible on my way to the office door. The air was chalky and left a bitter taste in my mouth, so I kept my mouth closed.

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