Dance of the Fire Imps
       

One tiny fire imp leapt out
from under Bucky's enormous combine.

A single spark struck a ripe head of wheat.
It charred the beard around the kernels.

The spark skittered down the hollow stalk,
laughing.

The fire imp summoned all his friends.
They hid under stubble until they flared

in a red line between furrows.
They somersaulted to the edge of the field.

By the time Bucky noticed, it was too late.
By then the imps were playing with the wind.

They raced the length of Easton canyon
and scrambled up over Tygh Ridge.

They skimmed down through more wheat
until they reached the cool Deschutes river.

A fire imp can't swim but watch how he flies.
Thirty-seven thousand burnt acres later

over parts of two counties, the fire imps
are still dancing.

From three canyons over, their music rises
orange and black in the sky.

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Copyright © 2020 Penelope Scambly Schott All rights reserved
from On Dufur Hill
Turning Point
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission