Fire
The white smoke ran like water into the nooks and crannies of irregular pile, briefly obscuring the hundred shades of brown. Poked with a stick, the pile would flare up briefly into orange flame and then subside into sparks and smoke. We jumped on sparks that escaped. The smell, acrid and yet welcoming, recalled dense black nights with bright stars, the crisp cold of not-quite-winter, and the swish swish of rakes, soft on the grass but loudly metallic on the concrete. We jumped into the piles, laughing, then were scolded into pushing them back into shape.
I miss burning leaves
Hey.
Just popping to post one I did for Fire.
Wembley Pool, London, June 1981
We're drivin' in my car...
Wembley, summer, lord have mercy it's Bruce, front row seat and I've made friends with the roadies, up from the pit to the edge of the stage, feet dangling, houselights down and the place goes nuts, rafters shaking
You say you don't want it...
Bruce is dancing all over the stage, the sax is volcanic steam, hot men, hot song, if it gets any hotter in here we're risking spontaneous combustion
when we kiss, oooooh....
He dances toward us, and suddenly the mic is under my nose and I remember the harmony and somehow sing it
fire
So remember that essay I begged for help on a month or two ago, the one about the student letters? I am finally sending it off to
English Journal
on Monday. Think happy thoughts.
Kristin:
Sending you good publishing~ma
Deb: your drabble made me green with envy. *swoon*
Some of you might be interested in this
[link]
fire don't play
A million miles away, I watched it burn. Phone calls, email, nothing I could do. The maps, every day. A widening circle, 0% contained. They said the fire was a wall fourteen feet high. Gases igniting in fireballs in the sky. Closer to town, always closer.
I put my hand to my mouth, watching, but only wept when it was over and I saw my favorite restaurant on CNN, still undamaged. Evacuated people I knew going home, safe, safe.
But years later the town is still as scarred as the hillsides. A need to talk about it to every passing stranger. Photos of the fire over the registers. Memory of the possibility of death, tragedy. Restoration is a longer process than just quenching the flames.
wistful, a home perhaps gone
They stack the cedar at the side of the house. It's soft, but cedar is the "good wood" out here, and it burns hot. They put the rest on the porch. I haul a wheelbarrow-load in the house. Enough for two good burns, plenty of time for more to dry.
Outside the snow is thick, the birds depending on my feeder, the cats huddled under the house. The dog sleeps.
Newspaper first, if I have it, and plenty of kindling. Two small logs, parallel. Two larger atop them, cross-wise. A one match fire. The warmth is the feeling of provision.
If you were writing about a female sheep, you'd say "a ewe," not "an ewe," right? Because while "an ewe" looks better, it sounds all wrong.
