To the west a dancing sun burned yellow-orange. It filled the sky shading orange and blue.
The rough dirt street paved in places by jutting stones was crowded with residents staring east.
A billowing black source cloud swirled high into gray wind whipped smoke. Spectators gawked, gasped, and yakked. Speculation, supposition, myth.
Down below, out of sight, out of mind, flames spread from rows of makeshift food zones near the west entrance of Mingalar Market.
A spark? A moment as charcoal embers flamed cloth and wood? An errant signature glowing slow and steady.
Near the narrow food area were fabric shops and plastic food in plastic bags – elements of combustible material.
Women with organic fruits and vegetable piled into mountains scattered screaming grabbed children heading for exits. Two children died of smoke inhalation.
Flames bolted into around and through wooden stalls filled with cloth.
Colors exhaled in the heat.
100 sewing machines glowed red.
Flames indulged their fantasy. Fruits and vegetables fizzled, cracked, exploded. Frenzy of fire.
Street 73 was packed with cell phone amateurs, beeping motorcycles, police cars, fire engines and ambulances all trying to get through…night fell, crashing into waves of volcanic billowing smoke floating north, gaining speed at higher elevations.
A full bone white moon witnessed the spectacle.
Water cannons extended from fire trucks directed streams of life over exterior stonewalls and shuttered shops into the center.
Red flames leaped, licking black clouds.
Firemen scrambled with hoses seeking more H20. Flashing emergency lights illuminated shifting crowds flashing strobes on phones.
White helmeted men yelled instructions to firemen. Sirens roared down streets looking for a source in a sewer drain.
The morning after – lines of police down the middle of 73rd and adjacent streets. Squads of orange vested street cleaning women huddled in groups having tribal discussions.
Fire trucks lined the street blocking off the market.
Vested women hauled out bamboo baskets and lifted them to men in garbage trucks.
Gawkers lined streets.
Firemen rolled up frayed hoses – police cadets marched in formation.
Trucks with armed soldiers left the scene.
Gutted shops, debris, and memories danced near boys leaning against a fence staring at burned mattresses. Salvaged hair dryers on a sidewalk reflected puddles of water.
A medic in a white Red Cross helmet waited for no one.
Two tired firefighters lying on top of a truck closed their eyes.
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