Poetry of Kansas
 

Fireline

When warm nights come
and April tells the grass
it's time, ranchers fire
the winter leaves, raise
white smoke to the heavens.
 
 Miles burn under the sky
 as night guitars spool
 clear from Mexico on the dial
 in the slow-rolling car.
 
 Fire circles hills with
 its hot jaws, and I (with
 my lights off) drive
 the dusty lease roads.
 
 Surrounded by steel, by
 fire and smoke, music
 and stars, I sing
 in this burning land.
__Steven Hind
© 1997
 
In a Place With No Map
New and Selected Poems
Steven Hind
(Topeka: Woodley Press. 1997)
page 10
Used by permission
 
October 3, 2001 / John & Susan Howell / Wichita, Kansas / howell@kotn.org

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