The fire was built in

the embers of song

thrush, the tilt

of stars and

overflowing April

moon.




Smoke and darkness,

left out somehow

from the image of

fire’s mystery, its

coming and going,

killing and scaling,




of landscapes,





smoke can also

mean hurt.





A curly-headed mass

of hair reveals

pan-pipes, a swooning

tune of a young

man, brought here





to judge the pull of

the people.





I confess I bow,

mostly, to the

call of the tawny.





As with fires, as

with light, people

fade into night

and sleep, and caverns





of orange appear

between logs,

chambers of nature’s

tinsel.





A roe deer darkness

is one of atavistic

terror for the city-dweller,

the plodding white tush

in leaf litter.





So I stare into fire and I wonder,

which part of the wood,

will the flames kindle under.








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