Poetry
Felix Thursday
Lammas
The forest fires that summer
burned the sky gray-orange.
Like god lit a cigarette and
blew its smoke in our faces.
Mt. Shasta disappeared. It's peak
was a charcoaled thumb-smear.
We tried to out-climb the smoke
to fresh water:
Stewart Springs;
Kangaroo Lake.
Away from choking on god.
Out of sight, cattle nudged the fences.
Dehydrated pines creaked their limbs.
We tasted flesh, gravel dust, and dry alfalfa,
until we and the moon were full.
