These fields that should feed us ignite, the wind-twisted wheat barbed with flames. These roads that should take us home go to nothing but fists of gray smoke punching bruised and cindered clouds. There's no escape for the black birds burned to animate ash, crows like stitches ripped from the sky. Two fields like lungs struggle to breathe in the heat. Listen how the air carries the crackling language of mindless fire.
Copyright 2013 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in the 2015 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar