A narrow road passes
By the dark shed
Walled by bush and tree
Brittle faded yellow, green
And gray.
Frames of mountains
Show first snows
Disappearing into the valley.
Close by the peaks
From roofs break through
Barren branch of birch,
Alder and maple.
A consistent quiet
Save the old crows
Preening fluffed feathers
While young ones trace
Small white flakes
Against the sky.
Through caw and whistle
A rumble of dust and diesel
Cuts the cold day air.
Once dark red
Now aged with pallor,
As the rose’s last petal,
Show’s her face
Pumper Number Three.
The truck occupied by two,
Fireman Tall and Fireman Small,
Rolls to the place
Once graced by blankets,
Baskets of wicker and
Shirtless children.
Long past the summer measures
Now marked for cold pursuits
To create
An ice rink.
The field surrounded
By board and post
Waits for Fireman Tall
Thick and round
Chewing his cold cigar
Unfurling a white hose.
Fireman Small balances
A giant wrench upon
His narrow shoulder
Resembling a mechanic
Marching off to battle,
His foe the hydrant.
Couplings attached
Nozzle propped high
Fireman Tall raises a hand
In unison with the cigar
Fireman Small pulls hard
The wrench lurches.
Water erupts
Trapped forward as
Dammed dancers bursting
To arc and fall upon the ground.
Fireman Tall stands hands to hip
Carefully assessing the geometry
Of distance and time.
Fireman Small bends
His thin angles
Upon the truck bumper
Staring through small
Metal diamond shaped holes.
Each settles in.
They wait.
Above old crows look on
Preening fluffed feathers
While young ones trace the
Spray against the sky.
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