Bad Air

The summer sun is choked by orange haze,

A heavy blanket draped across the sky.

We count the slowly passing, smoky days,

And watch the pale, dimmed sun go drifting by.

The smell of distant forests burning bright

Creeps through the cracks and settles in the hall.

It turns the golden afternoon to night,

A ghostly shadow cast upon the wall.

We seal the windows tight against the heat,

And set the fan to cycle air inside,

While ash and embers settle on the street,

And in our living rooms we safely hide.

Oh, blow, sweet northern winds, to clear the pane,

And bring the healing wash of summer rain.