Hawks sink and rise, float and drop, stick
in the sky like black glitter. Roads close
and shoulders crowd with pickups, yards
with neighbors, young families hand in hand
in hand. In a town with no movie theater,
no mall, only disaster begs such an audience.
Over our heads the brush gives way to charred
emptiness. They wait, the red-tails and kestrels,
the buzzards and eagles, on instinct. One by one
they dive. The smallest to flee are always most
at risk. But with cups of coffee and six-packs,
mesmerized by the dance–the spiraling wings,
the rising ash, the art made of arson–we sit
in our trucks and feel safe at a distance.
About the Author: SG Woody is an East Coast native currently in search of a good city. She earns a living writing boring things for interesting people and splits the rest of her time between her books, her Dalmatian mix, and her pen. Her poetry is forthcoming in 3Elements Review.