IT’S THE FIRE’S FAULT
The hills above Irvine are on fire,
over 3,500 acres plowed by flame.
There is ash falling but
no sign of the birds, no blue
to the sky. You can’t fight
these things. Best to give in,
cut out of the office early,
have a beer or two or twelve
at the Swinging Door Saloon,
tell your manager
when you show up late
for the meeting tomorrow
that it’s the fire’s fault,
and maybe he should have
pushed the deadline back until
the sparrows have resumed their singing
and the pall is erased from the sky.