Thanksgiving
It was hard, living on a hillside in Los Feliz, in a rented house with walls of glass, not to imagine the mountains surrounding the city burning. As if in a nightmare of perpetual fire. Lurking within the benign appearance, the appearance even of beauty, the beauty itself was the fire to come. Or something like that.
If she still wrote fiction, this would have been the start of the story.
A short story by Catherine Gammon.