D e s e r t E x p o s u r e September 2008

Poetry doesn't have to be passive, as this winning entry shows — sweeping us along into the fight against a forest fire, through the eyes of somebody who's been there in the heat and smoke.

Photo by David Popelka

On the Lonely Side of Animas

By David Popelka

Knocking in the night

A visitor at the bunkhouse door

I get up and quietly listen to the situation

I find my gear

And as I slide my arm into the yellow Nomex shirt

I look to insure that my water bottles are filled

They are

A long drive follows

We descend from the high curving mountain roads

Onto the backs of roads that become flat and straight

Walled in by the endless miles of brushy desert and clouded skies

Our headlights only manage to create a meager tunnel of visibility

Using my flashlight I attempt to locate our destination on the map

But only the road seems to know

Ahead there is a cluster of vehicles

Off the road men are standing in a circle

We stop and join the congregation

There is little talk for they have had this meeting countless times before

Thus under clearing skies and dropping mercury a plan is made

I quietly listen

And then move away from the ring to urinate

We climb back into our vehicle and drive into the desert

Onto the grounds that fire has passed over

Onto the Black

The earth looks dark and gray and strange

Almost lunar

We stop when our headlights are overwhelmed by cliffs of ashy smoke

Thick meaty smoke that falls upon us like a wave

Yet not nearly thick enough to hide the glow of fire living deep within it

We patrol our sector for hours

All the hours

Of all time

And much later

When exhaustion has crept into the pockets of our clothes

We sit and stare into the depths of drifting smoke

Watching the shrouded outlines of flare-ups and hot spots

Madly dancing and waving

Like specters hypnotizing us without words

Beckoning us to enter

I can only shiver

It seems strange to be so cold here

Here of all places

Gazing up I can see stars shining between the drifts of smoke

Looking down at my watch

I yawn

And wonder where my home is

David Popelka works lives in Glenwood.

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