I may live on a dead end gravel road, where the land spills forth abundance, where the birds sing sweetly, where the workers smile freely. I may maintain a happy heart, because I don’t watch the news. I don’t see in rosy hues, but I don’t sing the blues. Yet, watching the smoke from the Western fires roll in, my heart gives a shutter, and I’m rattled from my dream, my delusion. Despite all the love I have for the land and all my good intentions, destruction blazes on. The consequences of climate change don’t knock at the door, they burn it down.