After we were cleared to come back
we noticed burnt oak leaves,
caught in an updraft,
had floated to the deck, showing us
how close flames had come
like shards of scripture on blackened parchment
we’ve been trying to translate, numbed out
picking through the house and property.

The people we were
apparently left in a hurry, drawers half open,
dishes in the sink,
whole files pulled out of cabinets—
we went through this house trying to grab anything
we felt we couldn’t live without, that called to us
while we could hear the hot wind in the high trees.

Death must suddenly show up
like that, us unprepared, snatching at our souls 
flying around the room out of our bodies
like strips of celluloid flapping
free of old projectors 
the movie screen gone blank.
We took off leaving any dignity behind.

Our house is still standing
with all the work it still needs, 
my uncle’s paintings, family pictures
too many to take, my books,
my wife's crystals. . . .

Sixty homes burned and my god the poor animals
one friend had ash covered bear cub prints
pawing her car to get in.

I opened up my computer to read
fires in Siberia were breaking records
burning more acreage
than all the world’s fires put together.

Olympus in Greece, home
to the original games, burning.

Powder burns on our driveway
a flap of tarpaper torn off someone’s burning roof
balanced on my gutter, like a scout
sizing up the place,
and going down the stairs leading to the lower deck
we look out on tinder-dry weeds. Blackberries
crawl through a visible layer of ash,
too slow to be seen moving, reluctant refugees,
lugging small dark-green leaves on their crablike canes
as if it’s not too late.

                                                  Grass Valley, 2021