Portent

The lush green moss that clothed rocks and collared the base of trees has begun to turn a sickly gray and peel away into powdery clumps. Nearby, the contents of an old pot half filled with water that had harbored a menagerie of life all winter has been distilled to dust. Roots now rummage deeper for water and where gulps fed exuberant growth, small sips barely keep a self culled canopy of leaves alive. Life turns inward towards its core and slips into a kind of trance deep in its own shade, hidden from summer's heat. Further away beyond fences, the bush primes its fuel. On hot days a blue haze of eucalyptus oil hangs in the air. Senses strain on raw nerves to catch the first whiff of smoke or the distant wail of a siren.