Another Poem

A fire in the canyon:
They strain for something, for gravel sounds,
the thrum-stroke of coming diesel,
crunching brush, men’s noises
in the night.

The fire sleeps here.
They hope for something, for a slow sun,
but it’s sinking now with heavy ash,
quick flames, trucks choked against
the light.

The women listen.
They wait for something, for a sign that
drawn wings, held cringed behind
their heads, must be thrown
into flight.

Now nothing follows night,
except the sound of dust.

~ by dieamselsingt on July 21, 2007.