by underswansea


The smoke is thick as soup.

The sun came up in a ball of fire. It had a hunk out of it and looked strange. It was up over mountains lost in smoke. I could see the outline of Baldy.

The lake is clear of boats. Strange to see when it’s hot as hell. The tourists like to rev it up come August. Like a little smoke might scare them off. Is that all it takes!

The Indians used to light fires, in the tall grass burning acres. Back then the lake side and benches were sparsely treed. Only the largest trees survived. Experts said it was done to round up elk and deer. Maybe it was to frighten the Europeans. If so it didn’t work.

The tourists keep coming regardless of weather, conditions or gas prices. It never made sense to the natives. Half said they were bringing money, the other half said they were coming to preserve.

The will to take always overcomes the will to save. Even if outnumbered. Still it is easy to be misconceived.

There is a silence and coolness that accompanies the flat warm light. The ground birds are in the trees. Nothing rests. Natural camouflage is set off, but so are the eyes of predators.