Ode to the Fire Horse

Photo by Chris Guppy

Lunar New Year, and every time I write or read
the phrase “fire horse,” I see “fire hose.”

I wonder what the year will bring,
its chronic inflammation and bright
tendency to self-immolate, the daily
news reel, the nightly restlessness,
real and aching,

the tinderbox of snow-less forests
in the western mountains, the waving
yellow grasses to the east. Ski country,
big-sky country, but not a cloud in sight,
the landlocked sky empty of moisture.

I lift mine eyes to the hills,
but all I see is fire, fire, fire.