The Fire

The Bakers were camping midAugust when Mr. Baker's cell phone rang.

"Hi, Philip. Three more days... oh. Oh, no. Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay. Yeah. We'll be right there."

"What's wrong, Bill?" Mrs. Baker asked as she unpacked breakfast.

"Sara's gone into early labor."

"But she's not due for six weeks!"

"Phil's worried. The doctors are going to try to deliver the baby, but Sara wants us."

"Of course. Let's pack up."

"Leave it. Just grab our clothes and I'll take down the tent."

While Bill drove home, he had this nagging feeling like he'd left the coffeepot on at home. He tried to shake it, convinced it was his concern at leaving their food and coolers behind. But the fire he'd been building when he'd been interrupted had caught, and the crows had knocked over the paper plates from the picnic table. Soon the fire had spread to the dry pine needles and the hot, dry forest burst into flames.


The old fern was crowded and shriveled, shaded by tall trees who stole the light a hundred feet above, and fighting for what escaped with dozens of brothers and sisters.

It hadn't rained in a long time, and the fern's fronds were dry and brittle.

The smoke teased its fronds gently, and the fern sighed in relief. Almost better than water was fire. Fire chewed the leaves and scoured the forest floor, but it couldn't reach roots. A few minutes of almost unbearable pain, and then peaceful rest until the first rain.

And then the old fern had another chance at life. To grow anew among its brothers and sisters, bathed in sunlight that the bare trees could not steal. To have an equal chance at water and space.

The old fern choked on the smoke, felt the first flames, and smiled.


The ponderosa stood tall, fighting for the sun. Each year was a race. Who could grow tallest? Who would expand above the others, and hoard the most sunlight?

As they grew, lower branches died from unuse. The tree lamented its ugly dead branches running down its length

The smoke rose high and the tree hoped the fire would reach it. The fire would climb its trunk, cleansing it of dead branches, and release its seeds.

It could hear the crack of others letting their seeds go.

Unfortunately the fire would also claim its living leaves and branches. But everyone else would lose theirs as well. It was a small price to pay for the next generation.


The sleeping owl huddled in the back of its home inside the tree. The air slowly became thicker and sharper. The owl shifted its feet as the wood around it grew warmer.

Suddenly, the young owl awoke and flew from its roost. Something hot and bright was climbing the tree.

The owl saw that all the trees were covered in the bright stuff, and it tried to escape.

The smoke obscured its sight and choked its breath. Flying too close to a tree, the owl singed its wings. It was still surrounded, and it didn't know to fly to the lake, or to the south, where the town was.

The longer it flew, the less air there was. Finally, it passed out, exhausted, and died.