Fire Season
The day I return from Montana with no responsibilities, doing acid to honky tonk, I come home to bear shit underneath the apple tree, elk near the creek, and a rattlesnake whispering threats at my dog, then me, with her tongue, with her tail I grab my pistol but its home is metal I cannot afford a spark. So I carry a shovel, to skin head from body. But when I come back, she has vanished.
I hear the sky cough, echoing through the canyon, heaving overhead, and the turkeys calling back. I am starving, but I know I have to hook up the trailer in case there is fire tonight. The clunk of the horses guzzling weeds I hope no sand goes down their gullet– collic from the ground.
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Pray rain comes with this lightning. Thunder erupts like gunfire o’er the sky like the mountain ranges having conversation And I carry my shovel everywhere I go even to bed where I keep my pistol I look into the barrel of the cloud I know holds lightning– please do not take my house tonight, I already lost a rattlesnake today.
I tell myself I will not cross the creek with fear I will bring my shovel with me The apple tree begins to crackle from storm And I try to imagine brawl between bear and elk.
Of course, it rains when the sprinklers are on And I know it’s the fawns who have eaten my Columbine.
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