The hill behind my house burns.

We watch the flames from our balcony as airplanes rattle our walls and dust the ground with retardant, red as bloody snow. My nephew squirms in my arms. When the planes waggle their wings at us, we cheer. We sip lemonade while, bite by bite, the hill is consumed.

The fire slinks over hot desert sand and worry festers, cancerous and slow. We gather journals, finger paintings, family pictures, breathlessly waiting for an order of evacuation.

Then: a bat, smoke-blind, fleeing from some burning den. Huddled, quivering, on a corner of our porch. We give it water. Stop worrying about our house. Here is a tragedy of manageable size. A fugitive welcome in our sanctuary — however long it lasts.