What Is Fire to Me, or, Sailor’s Delight
Wood smoke lingers aboard the LA plane
that just flew down a burning West Coast;
New Mexico’s blue skies are veiled in talcum —
these warming sunsets — candescent red.
Facing west, we eat at a High Plains café;
the dock probes a receding reservoir’s extended shore;
cottonwood seeds blizzard pink in twilight —
these warming sunsets — simmering red.
Bryant Park is sticky with a strange haze;
our tongues salted with the cremated West:
lodgepole pine, mule deer, and mountain lion —
these warming sunsets — radiant red.
Coast to coast, the signs rain down from heaven,
launched by scarlet, canyon-scorching flames,
cataclysm of pyrocumulus sky fall —
these warning sunsets — alarming red.
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