IF a GUN is a LIE / then a PITHY CLIP is ME. / and if a hermit crab is a DREDGY CLAW HUT, / is HE able TO be RUDE about those BODY JAGS / and offer IT a TANNIN RARER even than LIFES CODE / GROVE within his triggered SON / THIS TOY GUY / so WHEATY he must be TRUE.
It was as DEATH TO LET HER WED / that USER, that TOE ROT / that GAZE into the LOO and never AIR IT / THINEACE lost to class FEES for CLAY / as one might sip LAWN DRINK by the PINT / using a HAIRY GRATER to strain out the FLIES / your MOOD-CUBE could not MOP up the RUN / the over-run on your COVID QUOTA.
We drove through wildfire smoke for 540 miles (I installed a near-Hepa rated carbon filter for the truck which kept our air in the cab much cleaner), and emerged to clear skies on the north slope of the Little Belts 20 miles from the ranch (we rolled down the windows!). The clear skies lasted a few days, then Canada’s firesmoke blew in. Just one more day of hot smoke, then clear skies and rain are in the forecast with daytime temps in the 40’s and overnight in the 30’s. On our last clear night the annual Nighthawk convergence moved up the valley to fly around the ranch house and surrounding forest from sunset to dusk. They pinwheel in groups of 15 or so, with around 50 birds in the flock, riding the thermals as the sunlight creeps up the east hillside pushing moths into the cooling twilight. The Cedar Waxwings that arrived as we left in July, have hatched chicks in their regular spot in the lilacs. The House Wren is tucked into her birdhouse, working on another brood. Goldfinches and Wilson’s Warblers flit through the hedges. The Snipe drops into the yard to stroll along the creek edge. The creek is still running through the yard with ducks in the little pond; a part of the magic green microclimate at the top of the valley.
A Lot, A Lot, A Lot, Aloft, / A Hex Storm of Piney firebrands, / Hiked over ridgelines branding into Quit Fur, / The river Bank, like a Queen In promotion, / A move from Pawn Jail to Nova, a trail of Dither-Goo transformed / to Boxing Day. / Sending the dry West Ute King into a Pouter, / his Twatty Lather the route to a Rebel Axis: burning.