Below firetower heights,
in multiple shapes of claws.
I watch fires cross borders,
eye water bombers circling black
oil fires as quiet vultures.
I see helicopters with fighters;
a red chemical falls, blood
rains on flaming ground.
Nothing stops choking breath,
the burning of bush. Heroic smoke
screen creeps from city to forests,
invades papers, erases footnotes.
I want to breathe again.
I want us to conspire.
Pitch of wounded white pines
ignites a backfire, sparks an army--
river on left flank,
bare soil on right,
winged creatures with
furious winds in front.
I see fiery sap of pines alight
a biocommunity under dark night.
Raucous firewalls push hissing bush
back to an axis of white stones.
Through my tower lenses,
the backfire burns everything
cleanses down to the ground--
till workers build new frames
and forest litters breed:
roots, bacteria, seedlings,