There’s something burning in the distance.
Much closer than the bitter, raging
northern blaze. 
There’s a fire a ridge or two over
that seems to be in control of itself.
The slow scorch sends up a steady plume,
and it goes on for hours, unceasing,
eating it’s way through piles of crunchy brush. 
The smoke smells like wet leaves
and a little bit of sassafras and I sit
out on the porch with a cup of coffee 
and a smoldering appetite to match, 
watching for signs and signals
that don’t appear out of nowhere
or anywhere at all.