Fire in Coon Hollow

On my roof, garden hose in hand, watering
the shingles down, I watch as fire roars up the hillside,
swoops and arcs from tree to tree, so close the heat hums
in my body. The cats are in their crates in the car,
we are ready to evacuate. Our house could burn
in three minutes flat, depending on the wind.
But I tell you this, from what I’ve seen of men—
their harrow on this earth—in the name of what,
exactly? democracy        freedom        angels        god—
I’d rather face the wind.