It was almost like snow. 

Elsie counted the number of flakes 
before they came to a rest on the soft summer grass. 

She lost count at 54. 

Her mother lay draped across the lawn 
like she hadn't slept in days and days. 

But how could one possibly sleep when 
the night sky was alive with so many colors? 

Elsie loved how the red danced with the blue, but the sirens hurt her ears. 

Where was her father? And her baby brother? 

They were missing the whole thing: 

The strong wash of the heat 
as the fire greedily jumped from bough to bough.