By morning I was charred

Yesterday, at dusk, under the huge umbrella of the maple, fireflies tangoed, intense and bright. Then as I walked through the house closing curtains and blinds, I noticed that over on my neighbor’s lawn a whole disco ball had exploded and the shimmy and shine was fantastic. Highlighted, at the edge, in one of the raised beds, was a Cosmo just opened. Fiery orange it caught the eye like a struck match, a flare against the fading light. These bright hues held me. It’s like when the Ruby-throated hummingbird sits on the fence around the sunflowers, a guardian preening, flashing scarlet, stop and go as it turns. There is always a second hummingbird near that is zipping just above, a mad pendulum making that racket that only that little zealot makes, a high chirp that could be used to crack truth from spies.

This morning at 0435 the highlight of the fireworks, the Grand Finale, arrived: lightning struck the Lonesome Pine in the front yard. When it hit, when it crashed us awake, our Ring security system called “Motion Detected at the Front Door”, already the rain was lashing the house in a deluge and so as I looked out the window all I could see was the flash of water. It wasn’t until later in the morning that I reviewed the App video and saw the moment the tree was hit and the shower of sparks. The upper reaches of the tree are still incased in the dead vines of ivy and we’re curious if helped the tree during the strike, the rain certainly had its way with any fire.

We went out this afternoon when the sun came out and walked around the tree touching its great trunk, noted some burns and a place where sap is spilling out. Some of the vine remnants have a definite char. Poor old tree I said. It survived the ivy, it survived its partner tree dying, it branches and roots untangled from the other, now I will have to wonder if it will survive this as well.

I had to hunt for this old poem from Klamath about another lightning strike, that certainly held worry in another way. One that worries me (always) about the west and its massive drought.

Lightning Strike

The fire never quite made it over the hill
boiling smoke hid the tree line
and bloodied the sun.

All night the scent of burning pine crackled
through the window and into
my dreams, by morning I was charred,
and dusted with ash.