The Vale of Death

It’s wood stove and fireplace season, and the neighbors down the hill across the road are keeping warm with cheerful blazes. In the morning before the sun comes over the hill, the air gets still and the wood smoke just creeps around like a heavy fog  close to the ground in a meadow at the bottom of our road.

I was out walking early a few days ago down there and the smoke was accumulating and loitering, a deadly toxic miasma. I now call that meadow the Vale of Death because any creature hanging out down there in the morning, before the first breeze of sunrise clears the smoke from the air, will surely asphyxiate.



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