Moses holds the fire line
The high desert is sparse in everything
we know in abundance
down in the valley where rain is our neighbor
and green lines the border of every home.
Here the land is lashed by scouring winds.
The trees are stunted and their birdsong
hesitates. Not even the voice of god
speaks unduly. We too, talk little
of the futures and pasts that settle over us
as ash. The words for now are break,
torch, dozer. Breathe,
crowning. Run.
Beyond the fire line, deer lightfoot their way
across hairline ridges.
Junipers reach for hazy cobalt sky.
Rivers flush with soot
and blood ochre.
Taproots tunnel toward
a molten mantle.
The west is burning.
At night I lie in water
surrounded by rippling stars,
quenching my desire to be inflammable.
By day I stand agape
before a thousand acres of burning bushes,
too consumed by the roar of hoses to hear
what is said by the flames.
Judge’s comments:
The allegory in this poem is stellar and manages to transcend biblical mythos and connect with our common climate fire times. The notion that the speaker cannot hear "what is said by the flames" of "a thousand acres of burning bushes" stops me in my tracks as I, too, strain to listen over "the roar of hoses."
Amanda Hiland
Amanda Hiland is a queer writer who grew up hiking through the forests of Oregon. A Special Education teacher by day, she is also a major astronomy enthusiast at night. She spends her free time folding origami, thinking about dark energy, and trying to make the world a kinder place. Her work has appeared most recently in The Capilano Review, VoiceCatcher, Epiphany,
Willawaw Journal, and Cathexis.