Soul settled deep in this nest of solitude, incubating Self

at the end of the chilly day,
the edge of the woods is alight-
tall trees and low flickering fire-line
against the pale western sky.
the fierce blaze, wind-driven holocaust
burned hot and hard across the land.
the dancing fire-devils are gone.

a flashing firetruck waits
in the smoky air, the faint crackling radio
echoes the dying pops of the embers-
the quick snapping flare
of a pitchpine stump bright
against the long shadows.

God and man have fired
these woods for all time.
the neighbors congregate to watch
and talk, or lend a hand.
we walk the mile-long line
with our shovels and rakes,
soot-covered and coughing
to ensure the fire is dead.

crazy old sanders shouts
to us from the road:
"ticks and snakes! a fire's good!
it kills the ticks and snakes!"
he rides away on his bicycle-
a voice crying out in the night.
i believe him yet i bend to
blackened boots to check
my weary ankles for
signs of life.

hasty poet scribbling
unwilling to wait
while the world sinks in.
and the poem arrives.

hollow whirr of swift wings returning to clamorous nestlings' chitter

welded walls surround circle of my world_ abundant lost connections.

errant sulfur butterflies in salt-rusted sea grass after the flood

long straight furrows' futile attempts to rule unruly Nature...