Forest Fire, Viewed from the Kanawha Valley
       

Above a roofline of wires and gnarled shingles,
          a faint yellow dawn. I lounge on my porch
          over coffee, in a slum on the West Side
          of a capitol city with a gold-leaf cupola.

All night long, brush exploded in darkness, fire circled hills
          in nervous flares. Small wild animals—
          coyotes, squirrels—scurried for swamps,
          for muddy traces and ancient runs.

Down here, ash settles on windshields, a powder from which
          the last trace of weight, the last wet
          burden of life has been burnt—and a mustard light
          scours shadows from the bruise-blue

depths of the night. I lower my cup to the floorboards,
          the scabbed layers of paint, grab lunch, pull
          the door softly, listen for the latch, the dull
          metal syllable in the wide morning silence.

Drive west from my alley into the mist lifting slowly,
          like a shawl from the silty shoulders
          of the Kanawha. Then skirt the plaza
          and the new mall, where the brass foundry

used to be, cross over the sunlit belly of the brown-
          green flow, ease into the rush. All of us
          running late, fretting behind tinted glass,
          surviving in a valley while mountains burn.

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Copyright © 2021 David Salner All rights reserved
from The Stillness
Broadstone Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission