It happened so, so very early—it happened so, so very suddenly.

The leaves were browning and crisping; they were falling; falling, dying; summer was dying, if not dead, and life was only going on and on. The sky was blue, and the clouds were white.

The clock ticked and ticked, until it was time.

And then, it was at that moment, when one asked, Is New York burning?

Is New York burning?

Is Virginia burning?

Burning?

Burning to the ground?

The people screamed, and the people cried.

The blue of the sky was smoldering; the towers crumpled, and the base collapsed; the grasses burned.

They ran. They ran and died, and when the ash billowed, it flew over them. It covered them, and only a bridge away, there were those who chewed their lips and clutched their hearts, thinking, simply, Oh my God, oh my God...

And then the days slipped by; and then their kin slipped by.

What is it like, to see the blue, blue sky, and know that your friend is dead? What is it like, to see the gold, gold sun, and know that you're an orphan? What is it like, to see the white, white clouds, and know that your home has been stripped?—stark, and naked, and red with flame?—and black with smog?

Light a candle, and watch the skies, empty of wings, empty of flight; the silent streets and burning eyes; the newer graves and solemn stares.

The hate goes; for one does not mean all, but not everyone can follow that. It went that day.

It went to the people, for the color of their skin.

It went to the people, for the way of their minds.

And people died.

They always die, and everyone will die; but they died, and they died too soon; their deaths too brutal.

How many candles have burned for them?

How much yellow has bound the trees?

How much longer will this go on?

Tell me now, if not us:

Is America burning?