Monday's Poetry: "Wildfire"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

It's Monday and I am still focused on the terrible fires that are consuming much of the woodlands and small towns of the three states (California, Oregon, and Washington) that form the western coast of the United States.  The death toll is steadily rising, homes and entire communities are disappearing, and a thick blanket of hazardous smoke has people trapped inside their homes.  And then, as if our far western neighbors hadn't suffered enough, Donald Trump is headed to California today where he lecture local political leaders on their supposed mismanagement of broad stretches of state and federal land while smiling for a few campaign photo ops.

Today's poetry selection, "Wildfire" by John Beaton, discusses the fighting of wildfires from a more or less technical perspective.  I did not find any information regarding the poet on the internet, but he seems to be well schooled in fighting fires and writing poetry.

May the seasonal rains come quickly to our friends and neighbors in the West, and may they be substantial.

Wildfire

by John Beaton

It starts with lightning, tinder, and a gust.

Smoke-jumper teams, at this stage, may contain it -

clad in Nomex, 'chuting down to dust

they rip along the fireline like a bayonet,

swinging pulaskis, cleaving to clearings and creeks,

drip-torching back-fires, containing each hot spot

with counter-tides of flame.  They know physiques

honed to sprint with gear may still be caught

by racing fronts and panic, so they pack

a thin aluminum drape, a fire-shelter.

A flare-up - now they cannot reach the black

by racing through the flame-wall, helter-skelter,

so they deploy before the terra torch

and bake like foiled potatoes in its scorch.

The fire expands.  Its roaring conflagration

finds ladder fuels and candles standing trees.

The incident commander starts to station

resources round the burn's peripheries -

machinery and hotspot crews assemble

in camps and helibases.  Like mirages,

infernos rise to ridge lines, flare, and tremble.

As faller teams and swampers check barrages

of lowland flame, a bucket-swinging Bell

lathers long control-lines with retardant.

The Super Huey heli-crews rappel;

Sikorsky sky-cranes suck and buzz like ardent

mosquitoes, but combustion's alchemies

still plate the skies with gold.  A rising breeze . . . 

The crowning flames become a firestorm

as fires' heads combine.  Convection columns

shoot rims and embers upwards where they form

flak for tanker-crews.  Smoke overwhelms

visibility.  They drop a Mars

and lift great lumps of lake, on every mission

seven thousand gallons salving scars

from summer's branding-iron.  Sudden fission

caused by sap expanding inside trunks

sends frissons of crackling sparks across the blaze

as fire-cracker trees explode.  The thunks

of falling tops spook ground crews.  Flames find ways 

to lope the overstorey under cover

of smoke while dozers doze and choppers hover.

Although we fight it, such spontaneous heat

kindles inner duff.  Like Icarus

We're drawn to the flame as if it could complete

combustion of some smoldering in us,

a splendor in the trees.  With rolls and dips,

like waxwings', flying wax wings to the sun,

we soar . . . And then, as if a flash eclipse

confronts us with the dark side of the moon, 

the aftermath appears:  black devastation,

burnt poles which yesterday were foliaged 

Cracked pods already seed reforestation

and years will heal what fire so quickly aged

but now, devoid of even twigs and slash,

this moonscape marks where sunlight fell as ash.