Burning, and: Dawn at Las Gaviotas

BURNING / Gary Young Sometimes when the wind shifts quickly back from the woods the flames from the slash heap surround me and I smell myself burning. AU day a junco has watched from the fruit trees as I've fed the fire. The flames jump and the green limbs snap and hiss but the junco stays. He doesn't know what I have done. He leads me to the persimmon tree and begins to sing. He looks right at me and he doesn't leave. He must not care what's in my heart. The Missouri Review · 267 DAWN AT LAS GAVIOTAS / Gary Young Everything is rising. Past the firethorn and the crimson roofs the tide is in. The small islands sleep under water now and the nuthatch, house finch, the darling mockers all sing. I hear the many voices lifted, the whispered prayers of thanks all answered, and rest well, astonished even in gratitude by my bride's quick breath beside me, so steady in this huge and violent light. 268 · The Missouri Review ...