The smoke has settled thick. Near mountains appear the color of bruises.  The far ones, I can only remember seeing.  I am thinking of leaving my husband.  I think there’s such a thing as “recovered,” he told me, meaning he thinks he can drink again.  Ash flutters down like torn moths’ wings, settling everywhere. On the other side of the ridge, the forest is a burning rage, but here there is still space for quiet reckoning.  I bring my children out to see, show them how they can catch flakes and smudge stripes on their skin.  My daughter on my hip reaches for the ashes like they are forest fairies, and I laugh when my son tries to catch some on his tongue.  Sounds are muffled like when there’s a big snow, and everything is a strange quiet. I listen for his truck, which does not come back at all this evening.  I hear the silence well enough, though. When he comes home the next evening, I have gone through the things that are important, and they are waiting by the door to leave with me.  It’s not for the evacuation, I tell him, when he looks to me for an explanation. 

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Jennifer Rood lives, writes, and teaches in Southern Oregon. Her poetry has appeared in W3: Words, Wit, and Wisdom, Verseweavers, Slant, and the anthology Moments Before Midnight.

Photo:  Bjørn Tore Økland