Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

extending over a long strip – sullen is the only word I can find to describe the feeling these fires gave me – the muck burns – or smoulders (sic) rather – slowly sullenly, inch by inch, leaving a fluffy whitish ash behind, – and blue-black patches – the sky, was completely covered with a heavy blanket of brooding clouds that hung low; the smoke arising made the blanket still more impenetrable. I pause to work on the tip of a “peninsula” of unburned sod that penetrated into the blackened area, and here I spent the day, gloriously free saturating myself with the bitter smoke, and the wide vast desolation. Curiously, there were thousands of grasshoppers here, that jumped into the burning sod & out again with seeming immunity – there were even bumble bees at times – from all sides came the plaintive wails of kill-deers, that added to the desolation. In the afternoon a chill wind from the north sprang up, which caused the smoldering embers to ignite patches of dry weeds – a harsh crackling ensued that reminded me of water spilled into a skillet of hot grease. The fires flared up richly red & yellow & died down as quickly.
Here had been a shed, of which only the heat-bleached tin roof was left in a distorted pile—