The city has been aflame these past days.
A quiet inferno on every street.
Heavy-laden branches wreathed in the sublime.
Wild and fleeting, irresponsibly abundant.
A display far beyond necessity, asking deeper questions:
Is all chaos?
Did this exquisite artistry, and we who behold it, emerge from a blank void?
Is life merely a dogged replicating machine, a clunking production line for DNA?
Can randomness and accident push water uphill towards such resplendent order and grace?
Is there an aesthetic remainder not accounted for by the banal necessities of reproduction?
How are entropy and Occam so defied?
Does He who spoke once in a burning bush speak yet in this conflagration of beauty?