The earth is black on both sides. The yellow bus taking the living away passes pile after pile of rubble, of signs that were once there: the Harley Davidson store, The Rogue Action Center- a nonprofit climate change group, the community bank - it’s vault the only thing standing. Indistinguishable from the ash is the mobile home park, which once housed the migrants that harvested the town’s fabled pears. Only their metal survived the wildfires: aluminum lawn chairs, a barbecue pit, hubcaps of cars long since evacuated. Among the stranded survivors is the aged widower searching impossibly for his wife’s ashes. He had escaped and settled here after the Paradise fires took his previous home two years back. Crows on charred oaks branches watched and mock his effort. He looked all around him and wondered to God if he had paid enough grief dues. When the bus stopped for him he did not get on.