This smoke —
that everyone is busy cursing
like it was the enemy
as if it had nothing to do with us
of young doe haunches
hundred fifty year old ponderosa pine trees
old crow's wings
that couldn't escape the biggest fire yet
Yet— the word that gives us an illusion of hope
While grey ash floats, atomized on an apricot wind
we learn that future air is tinted air
Don't curse the smoke.
it's holy stuff, evidence
as the hot red sun is
of our own setting.
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