…sailor make hay? Sailor go play? I don’t know the next line in that one, but I do know we’re seeing the strange red sky of smoke-congested air. It smells like a firepit, looks like an ash pit, and sits solid in your nose like nobody’s business.

Even the HVAC-circulated air in my office reeked of cinders.

After all this, I’m asking you, dear reader, to pray for rain. Or chant. Or sing. Or do whatever it is you do. I’m hoping for rain, ASAP.