9:30, sirens erupted. First thought: speeders. More sirens. Second thought: ambulance. Or firetrucks. Both. More sirens. Worries…something big is happening. A shooting? Not been a shooting in our town in the eleven years of my residency time…which means nothing.

Some places are so acclimated to wailing sirens that people exhibit minimal reactions. We react, and wonder. Didn’t help that I’d just been reading a post about mass shootings in America. The cycle between mass shootings is down to about 64 days. How long has it been since Orlando?

Sirens go on, so I worry about fire. Wildfires are our constant threat, unless it’s soaking wet in the winter. Friends are already out there battling blazes up north in Oregon and down in SoCal.

We’re a four mile walk from one end of town to the other. Our television and radio news is provided by the big city down the Interstate. The paper is local but doesn’t always report what prompted sirens. Sometimes all that we get are the police log entries and then depend upon the grapevine for explanations. The grapevine’s not dependable.

We went down to the Saturday Growers’ Market for produce. Nothing out there was burning. No bodies, no crashes, no smoke on the horizon, all good. Probably not for someone, and not for everyone. I can wish them the best, but sometimes that response seems so frail, empty and shallow.

Something was behind all those sirens.