The Weather: Thirst and Fire
Flames crepitate too close to your home,
heat scorches trees desiccated for lack of water,
but still standing straight like Olympian torches.
Here in the Parque Natural de Moncayo,
pine trees used to lean on each other with confidence.
Now, the sound of snapping undergrowth scares them.
Bright, lustrous greens, dull already, turn red
before bursting into the fireworks of superheated forest fires.
You want to take the boat, now smoked charcoal,
down to the river, but the river hasn’t been in its bed
for a very long time, after pesticides
exiled trout, frogs, and salamanders
to some undisclosed abandoned fishery.
You believe dry seeds and spores will sprout
when rains return, temperatures will cool,
overgrazing at the valley will stop,
and legislation will forbid slaughtering cattle
on the altar of profitability, but you doubt it.
You wake up unsure of whether what you see
is fog, shadows, or smoke from perennial fires
striking the flora and fauna of your mountains.
You pray to Tlaloc, a god from another continent,
because your gods, already consumed
by thirst and fire, have no chance of resurrection.
Previously published by Altadena Poetry Review
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