spread

in this high valley
the fires are coming
and every population-60 town
is an empty dustpan clearing brush
playing possum 
watching the August sky 
its color the light 
and reading the leaves 
while the rest of the world is still
covered     keeping distance      staying home
if it comes here there is no hiding 
from this spread inside this heat
wildfire does not care 
if you are made of wood plastic or metal
flesh love or fear
it does not care how careful you are
how young or old, how strong or healthy your lungs
it is looking for food where there is not much to eat
and plenty of wind to keep it hunting
melting rocks hopping the interstate
snuffing out crossroads
churches markets orchards strip malls schools
miles acres roadsides lakesides
hillsides landslides
every single tree
there’s nothing novel about this monster
we know everything and not anything except 
each year it will come and always just in time
for the letters on the marquees 
to spell out their gratitude for the
fighters huddled in uniform t-shirts 
the truck caravans hauling
water by the ton, hose lines by the mile
crawling together like military convoys 
across the barren flats
where all arrows point to red

Poem by Kristin Howe
Found Object by Marissa Leitch