Far west of us, yellow is
burning away green. Curls
of translucent ash are carried up,
following the smoky air. Charred
wood posts are monuments
to the trees gathered among
hardy grasses crisped to black.
My Sunday has a tender quiet.
Those fires spice the air, spreading
fine layers of white smoke, deadening
the mild, blue sky. A watery wind
is brushing surrender through the
forest's drying, green leaves. Small,
first leaves have fallen; brown
silhouettes staining the trails.
Here and there, the fire fighters
are waking, smelling smoke in
the morning air, raising our tired
faces to a weak sun, considering
the new morning's fight. We are all
looking at loss, trying and finding
our own way forward.
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