by Melody McGrath
The fire on the mountain spreads faster each day. Each day sharpened fingers of flame catch hold in the wrinkles of the mountain face and grow like hair, sprouting thick above the eyes now. Within minutes, a vagabond blaze blackens the tall, thin spires of a pine tree, and the pine humbles, bows its head low. By Sunday, everything will be seared and crumpled; we will walk amid the vapors, rubbing our hands and preparing to work a miracle.
