Northern New Mexico
Living as I do,
at seven thousand feet,
on high desert’s plain,
just under the clouds,
you,
wind,
avalanche
off encircling
peaks,
rage across
Rio Grande’s valley,
its ancient Pueblos,
to strike my ridge,
as if storm-fed surf.
How you taunt
my earthbound spirit,
as you crash,
hour after hour,
wave after wave,
onto my imagined
sky-high shoreline.
No imagining
though,
when,
in the next valley over,
you snatch
a controlled burn,
with little warning,
from the arms
of those who set it,
and with a few deep
breaths,
turn
a woodland’s
innocent “thinning”,
into a runaway wildfire.
I wish the reality
were a dream,
how you outrun
your pursuers
for months,
a scorched scar
of earth.
thousands
of acres round,
a reminder
of how much
you love
to toy with fire,
and how little
we humans,
try as we might,
can do nothing
to slow you down,
no less stop you.
I awaken
these mornings,
to see you lofting
ashy remains
of farm and forest,
hills and lowlands,
into the clouds,
as you play
your tragic game
of “catch me
if you can.”
I lock tight
my bedroom windows,
but your fetid perfume
still snakes
under my covers,
to choke me
at night.
Now,
whenever the lights
quiver,
all I can think of
is that you’re
laughing,
as you bend
your weight
into fragile
powerlines,
hear their tensioned
whine,
as if you
stroked madly
a one-string fiddle,
hoping to hear
the telltale,
spark-leaden snap,
as your breath
torches my hillside,
and another chase
begins,
as your laughter
tails off
into night.
