The Arsonist

Words by Dylan Sherrard
Photos by Matt Miles



Most days start as the hot coffee burns my tongue a little bit. It wakes me up and accompanies the morning music as I look out from my deck at all the rolling hills and little shrubs swaying in the warm breeze. An arsonist rises from the east, sparking a fire that gives life to all the cracks and the contours that make my sights something to see. When I raise the cup to my face a short steam hits my eyes, forcing me to close them. I imagine all the mentionable things I might find that day. A new feature laying hidden in the woods? Maybe a new line on an old trail? Perhaps if I am really lucky, I may even stumble upon a whole new trail on fire. Now that would be something worth mentioning.



Some days that fire from the east blazes on for what feels like an eternity. It follows me off the deck, down the road, around the bends and up the trail. It fills those cracks and contours with deep shadows and their opposing ridges light up in the flames. All the little shrubs continue to sway, their trunks black as a wick with glowing extremities. A million little candles along the trail. I race through the inferno weaving side to side with hope that I don’t spark myself amongst the arson. The heated winds pinch my nerves and the little white strings from my hood sway with the flames. Leaving behind a trail of smoke and ash I make my way out of the blaze and back to a safer, less exciting place. The wildfire is extinguished shortly thereafter and the arsonist runs off, leaving me yearning for his next blaze. And it is never much of a wait. Day after day he stokes a new fire, always starting in the same place. If it weren’t for such picturesque burnings I suspect someone would try to stop him. It seems he may never leave. Eventually though, one day the rivers freeze and summer ends. He stops lighting fires and everyone seems to miss the flames that roll over the valley.



There aren’t many fires these days. I drink my coffee through a thick pane of glass, warm blanket wrapped around me. Those hills are bare, Covered in snow with tiny black burnt out shrubs poking up from beneath. Everything stands still. The warm breeze is now cold and the arsonist himself can barely make his way through the thick gray sky. I’m not sure where he goes, but I anxiously await his return. Maybe he lost control and set himself on fire and all the gray that envelopes the world are his very own ashes drifting away in the wind. I hope not. But if such is the case I hope someone takes his place. Winter is painful and I miss the wildfire mornings.