Night before last someone's son, or brother, passed away in a fire. He was 39. We found him in the back bedroom by the window, supine, legs curled beneath him, head tilted back, empty eye sockets staring at a ceiling that's no longer there, mouth open, swallowing a 1,000 degree concoction of carbon monoxide and cyanide, telling his brain to release enough adrenaline and endorphin to endure the last few seconds of his skin boiling.
10:30 am a cadaver dog helps us locate the remains.
A breeze replaces the smoke with a scent of sweet grass and fresh cut hay. It was a gorgeous morning, just hot enough to feel like summer, deer in the pasture behind his house, longhorn cattle grazing, birds chasing off a grackle, I whistle a tune by The Rascals, "it's a beautiful morning... "