On 97 ALT eastbound just out of Entiat
a lone tumbleweed sat,
backlit, nearly transparent,
a forgotten thought.

It’s fire season all the signs say,
here it’s burned down to the road,
scorched rocks and harlequin trees,
half escaped, half engulfed.

Every night now I’m dreaming
and every dream now I’m explaining
or trying and trying and waking
with relief.

Name the cry.
What does this need
need? Distance? Space? Heat?

A water-skier shapes a snake
on the hyaline Columbia.
Cautiously, I pass a convoy
of brush breakers.

Somewhere, fire activity
in this elemental place.
And acres of orchards.

Harvest came early,
at the base of each
are Schrodinger’s crates.

I almost pull over
to take a peek, to set
one story straight, at least.