A whiff of Hades

I caught the first whiff

of tarweed this morning.

Someone left the door

of Hades ajar again.

The barbed oat grass

is so dry it crackles.

Soon the baby bluebelly

lizards will be chasing

bugs and dodging jays

and crows. Fresh coyote

scat on the fire road

says they’re around

nightly but I haven’t

heard any yips or yodels.

We keep our cat indoors

just to be safe.

The remains of winter’s

rain trickles through

the roots of the laurel,

under the gravel then

emerges to cross

the path darkening

the dirt like the coffee

stain on my new shirt.

I keep looking at these

entangled bays and oaks,

madrones and buckeyes,

like the ganglia in my body,

the dimming rods

and cones of the retina

in my remaining eye,

the gleaming moss

that lines the limbs

where they cross,

arranged by nature

like a crucifixion.

The spurge and thistle

have withered but not

the broom which waits

for fire to crack its seeds.

I fear the fire witch

wielding her broom,

and pray that the widely

predicted super El Niño

will be a squalling brat of 

a birth in the ninth month,

drenching the earth with

tears of relief and mirth.