Sunlight glinted brightly off the wing of the plane. Passing over the Rocky Mountains, I could see the ugly cuts of road made in the forests by the logging companies. The Blackfoot River snaked lazily beneath me, and clouds hovered without intention above the now still-green and untouched forests of the Bob Marshal. Snow still clung to some of the higher peaks, but the moisture was scarce this year and many of us were sharpening our Pulaskis in anticipation for a bad fire season.The plane was half-full according to the woman at the ticket counter, but it seemed less so than that. The pimply red-faced girl with the too-new maroon hoodie had removed her shoes and curled up across two seats with a blanket. I couldn’t stop looking out the window at the clouds, the mountains, and the land – acre upon acre of dull green and brown, hungry, it seemed, for fire.

Clouds a blanket of cotton-white shielding us from the chaos below. Could almost feel the angry heat burning through the cumulous.

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Not a full flash fiction today. Wrote this little bit the last time I flew. Figured I’d post something today, as I promised I would post on Mondays, but also wanted to slack off a little, as I want to take it easy on my birthday.