Out of the Fire

Sydney Avey

THE WARRIOR, A TRIBUTE

He jumps the canyon rim,
                                                                                                                     fist pumps the air, bellows belligerent smoke                                                                                      and descends like a marauding tribe
                                                                                                       to bully the dry forest                                                                 
                                                      rooted and mute in his path.

We scamper from disturbed nests,                                                                                                      form columns, arm ourselves                                                                                                              with courage and technology.
                                                                                                                He stomps through, keeps going.

His savage red face paints
                                                                                                                across miles of sky.
                                                                                                                            Heart hot and black
                                                                                                                       pumped with stolen oxygen,
                                                                                                            driven by a century-old hunger,
                                                                                                              he devours acres of brush,
                                                                                                                 picks his teeth with the tops of trees,                                                                                                    and pulls his dragon tail deftly                                                                                                              out of harm’s way.

We bring in reinforcements,
                                                                                                               buzz his head, use our diplomacy,                                                                                                     invite him to go elsewhere.
                                                                                                                    He will go wherever he pleases.

His specter rises in clouds                                                                                                    open-mawed, empty-eyed,
                                                                                                                     an ancient soul named Legion.                                                                                                              He will go, but not before he has                                                                                                      scalped our forest,
                                                                                                                            seared our lungs,
                                                                                                                                   and settled the score.