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by Jane Blue
The fires hadn't begun, it was morning,
the air moved slightly, there was
a hummingbird in the roses.
At the moment there were no roses.
How does it find nectar with no flowers?
In the morning it zooms off.
A trickster god in the dogwood shines
at sunset like fire, beautiful
and malevolent, like a god. September
heralds the fires that tear through
mountains on all sides. And then you
enter the scene, with your floppy hat
smoking a cigar. Smoke towers above you
like the cloud of a bomb, prophetic
of fire in an orange sky, the sun
itself diminished. God, why didn't you
make us more god-like? Or perhaps
you did, short-sighted and greedy,
poor stewards of this beggarly world,
people streaming out of the hills.
You are a trickster god.