I live in a land of short trees,
tinder and kindling growing
wild on the blackland prairie.
The open blasting sky awaits
bottle rocket cigarette butt sparks.
Folks with an uneasy eye on
brown grass and the roadside
fireworks stands say we just
need one good hurricane.
The rocky soil is a doormat for
the chihuahua desert slinking
eastward. Its dragon’s breath wind
stokes the fires when they come.