"fireline" poems
A line as slow
and undulating as the Tongue
marks the horizon. Last summer's
fireline shadows the jaw
of the sandstone ridge.
Broken shards of hand-napped
tools litter the path. Sun drops,
and bison-dust rises
across the plain. One crystal tear
slides down the cheek of sky.
Nighthawk shrieks, and diving,
takes his prey. The Tongue laps
far below, ripples over pebbles
a song to soothe water monsters
who take us after dark.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC