The second morning, the sun was red.
At High Level, Fox Creek, the fires uncontained
were borne on the winds they made

and to expand their sphere of influence 
they burned a school. The gas and hydrocarbons found us 
800 miles south

where the sky was yellow. On the third day, by afternoon, 
actions were performed out of duty, not interest.
When the red moon rose we drew the curtains.

Disabused of an illusion we say the fog has lifted, 
the smoke has cleared, the dust
has settled, and now we see,

though what arises is not clarity 
but a set of new misgivings. Is this how the world will be
and not just how it is? 

The blossoming apple shifted key from ode 
to elegy, knelt down inside itself in its halo of bees
on the fourth day. 

Clearwater River Dene Nation, Island Lake,
Île-à-la-Crosse, 500 miles south 
of the evacuations 

in the evening of this fifth day, we’re advised 
to stay out of what the smoke is, its particulate
of houses, plants, animals.