Embers

Someone left embers.

It's always that way:

The same, dim glow rising,
Its dead language pouring
Over the underneaths of leaves.

The courses of Fox Sedge
Tramped down into traces
And blacktop in the day

Fold up,
And the dark of their foldedness
Spills between stars,

And we hear the sounds of shores,
Though we are too far inland
To hear it.

A long list of the impossible ways clouds
Become aurora goes lost,
And leaves itself on the knife-slick stones
Of a creek bed.

They'll build houses here.

The list will never be read.

Before that happens
Let's gather wood.

Make a fire, here.
Put our legs next to it.

Build it up
With pocket weight and carvings.

Leave a pile of embers.