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On the high ridge
Behind the trees the lights of the houses
Look weak inside the heedless
Placidity of the fog.
A helicopter making a last
Pass behind the ridge, broadcasting
Seed on the blackened mountains,
Makes a rapping in the air.
Fog enters the tops of a grove
That nearly burned with the rest
A week ago -- whole groves would ignite
Even before the fl ames reached them,
From the advancing heat. Into the huge
Eucalyptuses that stand over the house
White moisture motes slowly swerve,
Navigating the blackness, among the still leaves.
No longer muffl
ed in brush
contours are clear
subtle blades of grass
come up in the blackish ground
behind the twisty black branches
stand chimneys and pieces of walls
broken glass around the foundations
a sterile glitter
of human tones and scents and looks