They don’t think to warn you of the quiet creaking closing of internal doors
The slow gathering of mangled twigs catching in the creeks
In the places it wants to bend
And turn
The low smoke plumes that hang listless over the city
In still winter nights when the sky has gone stagnant
And, of course, what do I know of their wood stoves
And fireplaces
How to open the flue
And clean out the soot
When I smell the burning
I feel hot spinning winds around me
The contrast of the dryness of air stretched against my dewy lips
The golden hills rippling with ribbons of licking flames along the curves
Wafting swells of gray clouds blustering up into the seething hazes
The outstretched limbs of scorched trees splayed open
As their leaves catch aglow in their searing ruination
I feel the fallen acorn in the ashes
As it touches its first green shoot down into the fecund soils
Drinking the rare drops
Sheltered from the grinding sun
Throughout all that changes
The stillness and storms
I am anchored here underground
In and under
This is where you will find me
