He pants. He pants like a wild animal. The flames are dancing in front of him, beckoning him, but the burns on his arms remind him all too well of the fire’s painful caress.

Heat washes over him in waves. It’s still hard to back away. When the tears are streaming from his eyes, he finally flees from the edge of the forest and stands on a nearby hillside.

Destruction is beautiful. Nothing is beautiful that cannot be destroyed.

He watches the birds flying in panic aross the sky. Their nests are burning. His stomach churns briefly. But he remembers that they are birds after all, there will be more nests, with more eggs next year. He easily forgets the other creatures that made their homes there.

The forest is wildfire’s territory now. It is living and breathing; it is good enough for the man on the hill. The blaze gulps in oxygen and roars for more; always wanting more.

The man on the hill is possessed by the fire. He can’t help it. He sees angels in the fire, and runs into their flaming embrace.