methow grist 2011-2014 archive


Report From Driveway Butte

Some bully fist of smoke
has bruised the blue-eyed sky.
Twelve jumpers swing out of planes
cutting through sharp clouds of ash
into timid stands of tamarack
quivering in red-hot wind.

Young and tough, they trudge
across the blackened rock, dark as slag,
into heat that hugs the steep shale slope.
Their shovels bite deep grooves
a hundred feet below
the wavering ridge.

Belief in some god, an honest wind,
or their next cold beer
hold the men steady
as flames rise and curve towards them.
Looks like this could be a big one.
Keep them in your prayers.



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