Heat

As I left the flat this afternoon there was a fire across the street, tearing its way through a house like a dog through newspaper, ripping and popping glass, cracking wood and melting groaning metal. A man was outside, silent, head in hands, caught between inactions. A crowd gathered to mark it, to watch a life go up in flames. We had never seen a fire this close before and stood silent before it, drawing beauty from its strength, reverent before its wisdom. It ravaged and raped without prejudice, without emotion, nonchalantly, as though polishing a glass. Soon after, the sirens came singing its praise, screaming their worship, praising those dancing flames. I walked on. Didn’t stop. Didn’t consider it. Who does these days? As I got off the train later I could still smell that tangy smoke in my nose. The sun hung low, there was a restlessness in the air, a crackling lightness in the evening, like we were waiting for something to happen. Dogs pulled at leads and men walked around with their shirts off. I kept thinking back to before, the roar of the oxygen consumed, swallowed, engulfing those walls with yellow tongues and tearing down all before it.