Silver flitter of insects inside the fire
wings fold then disappear becoming gray
paper ashes. One moth caught in soot
finds a tree, some sap, a beetle,
a search for others that hang still, lanterns blowing
in the wind, scaly wings, delicate rice paper.
Insects love fire, the light's blue tips,
they come close
the bodies glow red as they burn.
Trees feel the same,
plunging roots into the ground
they would like to become old
but are beyond their limits.
Everything rubs desire and burns.
It is the attraction.
Around me are the largest pinnacles
swirling red and brown, jutting
into the air, trees bending into shades and lines,
the smallest things are available.
Don't talk, listen,
the air hangs,
the blinking cacophony
bleeds through trees.
Only when silent
are we smaller.
A blaze, thicket of yellow houses
Where did the river go? frogs
that lay in the mud banks, red flowers
queen bees, moths.
The summer evening, ants
numbly trailing my thigh,
the oak's fragrance blurring air.
The water still there.
pacing past pot holes, black smoke.
A long howl wails the air,
startles the owls.