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Dies Irae, Dies Illa
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When I left home, there was a faint scent of smoke in the air. By the time I got to work, 35 minutes later, the employee parking lot was deep in smoke, the overhead lighting partially obscured by flying cinders and ashes, whipped by a nasty 45 mph wind (gusts up to 65 mph).

The skyline is like one of Dante's circles in hell, backlit by the fires to the north. Every time an employee opens the door to enter or exit, he is accompanied by a swirl of dry wind and ash.

The sun is just coming up, to greet its cousin the wildfire. It is a red angry orb, and it's obvious now how smoky the air is, seething with drifting black clouds of smoke.

I can hear the sirens shrieking their warning, emergency services and fire trucks from all over the city, headed northward.

It's fire season in southern California.

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