The grass parched by unseasonable heat
Though irrigated regularly, browns.
The howling Santa Ana winds deplete
The soil of moisture, leaving dusty mounds.

The populace sits on a tinderbox,
Collective breaths held for the winds to change
Thus sparing homes in residential blocks
And shifting the evacuation range.

Cooperation’s been unprecedented
Between the numerous fire agencies,
And yet the grumbling of the discontented
Betrays the city’s overall unease:

If spring brings conflagrations uncontrolled,
What will the subsequent dry season hold?