FIRE: A POETICS

Oh fer *)(*&(*)^&^%^&%*^% crissakes -- I hate it when the Muses get it wrong! the Chatelaine proclaims and shakes her wingtips at the cowering angels.

"HOW MANY TIMES DO MOI GOT TO TELL YOU!???? IT'S POETRY THAT SHOULD BURN, NOT THE MOUNTAINS!!!!!!!!"

she yells again.

Which is to say, THE FIRE has arrived and is two miles away from Galatea's mountain. The sky is livid. Fire helicopters keep whirling overhead to scoop water from the reservoir nearby for dropping over the blazes. It's rumored that Robert Redford's home in the area is ablaze. There are cops at the bottom of my road preventing people from going up the mountain (well, except for Moi whom they reluctantly allowed to enter since I live here). And tonight, here on Galatea, there'll be a Nightwatch in case of needed evacuations.

And wouldn't you know it, she thinks in disgust. The Big, Burly Men were scheduled to finish the fire protection ridge just next month!

Fortunately, the wind is as strong as the Chatelaine's blather, and it is blowing the fire away from Galatea.

And so, while she watches the night, the Chatelaine goes back to crooning over the brooding mountainside lit now and then by flames:

Come to Moi, all ye furry animals. You will be safe here. Ye jackalopes, ye deer who drive my doggies wild, ye squirrels and skunks (I forgive you, skunks), even you coyotes and jackals and mountain lions and bears. Come here to safety where your fur shall remain unsinged. Here, ye furry Babies, where Poetry burns hot enough to damp out any other pretender to Fire.

Meanwhile, you go Wind! Whoooooosh and blow as hard as Moi blathers. Blow and blow and, yes, I shall sing you your own poems someday. Ye whose existence transcends invisibility...