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by Melody McGrath

The fire on the mountain spreads faster each day.
Each day sharpened fingers of flame
catch hold in the wrinkles of
the mountain face
and grow like hair,
sprouting thick above the eyes now.
Within minutes, a vagabond blaze
blackens the tall, thin spires
of a pine tree,
and the pine humbles,
bows its head low.
By Sunday, everything
will be seared and crumpled;
we will walk amid
the vapors,
rubbing our hands and
preparing to work a miracle.