I saw a reflection of the sun in a body

of water. It was the evening color

of forest smoke in September. It was a pire of coal-turned

bark and sticks. Holding my hands over the ash,

all I could feel were potholes, ruts, and hollow roots cut

and scratched where blue-green memories should be stashed.

Shaded, burnt trees and grey grass marked off black

buzzards of different sizes. I turned my back

in disgust and dragged myself out of the dark well

of my discontent. Then, I slid back in—

through the silver foliage of fate—still old,

yet steady. I let my fear pour out. I was ready.