The Nisqually delta’s bog is burning. Our Maxfield Parrish splashes of glowing cloud have been replaced by a feeble magenta eye struggling to punch through to us. Yesterday the smoke was so bad in Seattle, you couldn’t see across the Sound, and I stared straight into the sun for the first time in over a decade. It’s like someone stole the sun and traded it out for a red dwarf. Everything smells, tastes, like smoke.
This is the worst it’s been since my great-grandmother was my age.