Burning Hills

Last evening.

When I got home,
I sat out on the cement stoop for awhile.
An imperfect evening:
a little bit of cool wind, grackles balancing on the feeder,
prayer flags taking whatever it is I pray for
to someone who will collect them,
jog them into a tidy stack,
keep them for when I'll really
need my knees and palms.

You came and I leaned into you.
You remind me of the burning hills from home.
The lignite coal veins snaking
underneath the broken ground,
smoldering.
For hundreds of years, they keep
their heat.
Watch them, the farmers say,
It's been a dry winter.

I like how your dark hair hangs.
I like how we don't know the fire
that lies beneath these burning hills.