Embers

The angry, orangey worm

gnaws the manzanita root

makes a smoldering tunnel

through the soil recently

baked like a scone.

Grows fiery wings

and rides the wind,

glides gently down

to eat a house. 

I often dream without sleeping

My 4 a.m. head was crammed

with a dancing flame and fishes

that swam from cloud to cloud.

and a long ago naked plunge

in the pool of a New Mexico flash flood

fed by a rust-colored cataract.

Our bodies were speckled

and dusted with orange

when it dried on our skin.

And once again, for what

must be the ten-thousandth time,

that warm day one spring

when walking out a ranch road

on the green flank of the mountain

the Spanish named for the devil,

I saw a huge valley oak covered

with fresh sprouting leaves

trembling in the breeze.

Except there was no breeze

and the leaves were singing.

It was all finches, finches,

an orchestra of goldfinches

on their way north to nest and feast

on the seeds of grasses and thistles.