The Orange Eyes of Embers
The veins of a leaf quake with the branches’ shutter.
The sky before the storm become shallow, limited by expectation.
The air sighs; the building storm slowly rings upon the world.
Trees bend with objection and grass fields roll.
The slats not nailed down- rattle.
It beats at the doors of the tall dark buildings; taps on the windowpanes.
It bats the hanging stoplights at the center of town as a kitten would.
The sky’s back breaks: impatient thunder booms.
Its deep, rumbling knell crashes down thickly upon ground and explodes in every direction.
Dry lightning divides the entire sky with blinding incisions!
There is fire in the field west of town!
The ground beneath the flames is black, racing up the hill with the wind, against the legs of men and their red engines.
Voices call to each other, work in the smoke, curse for the rain until finally, finally it falls.
Everything is falling with whoops and calls of elations.
Figures are drowned out in the thick grey curtains of rain as if the clouds stamped their feet to the ground.
The younger men rest suddenly weary in the aftermath, they laugh from their fatigue, smoke cigarettes and tell stories.
The older one’s are silent and still kept from animation by a life spent
out on the badlands.
At their feet, the orange eyes of embers slowly die.
