phones pinging with news,
they keep the car packed.
Clothes, papers, her grandma’s silver,
his old guitar, dog food, water, pictures
they thought they’d have time to scan.
They stay inside, wait, windows
a strange End Times hue. Hope.
until the evacuation call comes.
They cry as he props open gates
to give horses a chance, as she
lets hens out, leashes the dogs.
Tears tumble down ash-dusted faces,
soak into their masks. Ash made of pine,
black-tailed deer, salamander. Ash made
of books and homes. Ash ever-present
as grief. As they drive away, they breathe in
what’s lost.
