The air is hung heavy with heat.  Hung heavy with smoke and flame.  Where the ash engulfs the sky in a hazed confusion.  Timbers burning like a bonfire out of control. Falling one by one as the fiery breath races across neighborhoods with no regard.  Brass spreads and spreads heavy with loss.  The sky is a hue of coal looking down on saddened souls.  Then that tease of rain quenches the earth with a few rain drops, falling for mere seconds.  This slight of hand disappoints.  Green grass is but a memory now replaced with colorless death.  I can hear the sound of branches snapping helplessly, falling to the ground.  I keep walking around with my feet leaving a dusty puff of smoke with each resounding step.  I keep looking up and looking up but there is no sign, no relief.  Rain is rare when you are waiting for it.  Our rain boots have been lined up at the door