Fire Creeping across Brush

​Fire creeping across brush, 
Foul air and dead trees,
The corpse of a deer and smoke, burnt
Air that scalds the breath. These 

Creatures, weren’t they innocent,
Even good? And all these creatures,
These blind moles, aren’t they yearning
For good, songbirds or screechers,

Their feet are trapped, they flap their wings
Until they might break, and they lie and wait
For liberty. You can feel the heavy
Air before a storm create

An expectation, hope, every
Flood that cuts between rocks,
The muffled lightning in the clouds,
A wind that sweeps the hill and fox,

A man walks with a walking stick,
A planet threatens to explode,
It is so hard not to live in the ravaged
City, but light the night-black road.