By the light of fires
That make my eyes sting,
I swear I could burn
Words through the white haze.
See what the drought brings?
See those red, gold lines
On the knife-edged ridge,
See the way they cling
To the edge and snake
Through the night to spread
Grey, black, and white wings?
I can hear them sing.
Friday, August 7, 2020
The Hiss Starts to Roar
