A Continuous Burning

The horizon line is burning— I never noticed until today when the grey morning helped accent the orange flames of cypress trees. They shift to rust on the hillsides surrounding the house, clusters of them haloed in midmorning sun.

A continuous burning as the weather shifts unseasonably within its temperatures— •And odd, despite the cold front moving overhead, the rabbits from the neighboring fields scatter across the subdivision’s perimeter. Driving at night, they flash and dive between bushes bordering the houses, leap between the car’s headlights as I cross the alleyways leading up to our house. •Yesterday, Brendan handed me a burgundy red leaf, a narrow growth from a young tree. Perhaps oak—