Fall Was Once Fire Season in Los Angeles I open a window to a noon sun white with smog. The sky is a mute nightjar hovering dead tamaracks still planted in their own ruin. Fall was once fire season in Los Angeles. Now all the days in June are burned and the news is blue. Portrait of Evening as Song Nature’s low hum is an alarm. A beluga is a blue night, rainbows of fish swim out of its mouth, past what’s left of the bright red coral deep in the ocean. The evening blazes pink as a star and children riding their bicycles at the seashore know it is time to come home, know when fishermen spear the last marine life even mothers will be gone, even the white dawn will be a silent city, a collection of broken shells.
About the Author:
Natalie Marino is a poet and physician. Her work appears in Bitter Oleander, Leon Literary Review, Midway Journal, Rust and Moth, Shelia-Na-Gig online, The Shore, The UCity Review, Variant Literature, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Memories of Stars, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. She lives in California.
Feature image by Christian Regg/Unsplash
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