Smoke so thick,
Can barely see a hundred meters.
Choking woodfire smell,
From a dozen childhoods.
Later,
Wind picks up.
Lightning on bone dry badlands.
Ash rains from the sky,
Coating my pickup,
My flesh.
Soon,
A late night drive to get chapstick,
Ash falling like snow.
Howling wind sends ash,
Into flurries.
Next day,
Coming down the logging road.
Flames across the canyon.
Racing to see if it’s caught,
Or missed the house.
10kms in a night.
Fast fire.
Sky clears,
Mostly.
Breathing isn’t so hard.
Running skidder,
Windows open not to fog –
Sneezing.
Coughing.
Dust,
Smoke.
Nose runs black in the shower.
I am indeed,
A herald of apocalypse.
Fresh from hell.
Can you not see my evidence,
Ashen,
Covered in soot?
I’ve been playing harbinger,
For a very long time.
These experiences scar you,
Every single time.
Hurt you.
Smoke.
