Precarious
The sky holds its breath this morning. Red-flag winds predicted by noon.
My grumbling motor-scythe splits the morning calm.
Between coffee and breakfast I’m balanced on rock and deadfall.
Grass fires on the morning news,
Each fire season worse than the last. We blame the weather and who’s to blame for that?
Thistle raises its spiny crown from a crevice in boulder-heap.
Here’s a visitation, a caution – white moth like thistledown, flying ash.
Steep hill is wildfire’s playground – launches, leaps, and ledges.
Matted dry grass entwined with weed, distress-crop for drought.
I spare a sapling oak
barely visible through fading green. What does it know of life and death? The oak trees breathe for me.
~ Taylor Graham
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