On Thatcher Road next to an orchard, I stood transfixed, staring at the fire’s terrible beauty, marveling at the wildness of it, the power of it, the anarchy of it. Behind me, I heard what sounded like running water. I crossed the street and stared at the ground under the lemon trees. Smart, I thought. Someone left the water on. Any moisture would help keep the fire at bay if the winds were to kick up. The winds always kick up.