August 19

The fires flowed together here:

blown down dry canyons, antithesis of water
but moving not unlike it—
the confluence in conflagration.

With devastation
sometimes it’s hard to find
the right word, to capture

capricious natures,
fire casting a permanent shadow
with such arbitrary borders—

remaining pines, firs, and hemlock
all shocked prematurely orange—
guilt of the survivor.

Consumed by the Chiwaukum
this land can speak
for itself,

litter and understory erased,
branches incinerated to generate space,
trunks turned ink-black,

the blank slate hillside stands still
and staid and states:
I I I I (was a tree.)

For miles, this repeats.

OPTIONAL POETRY