In smoke-smudged sky
moon asserts itself over sun.
A rare occurrence.
People take notice,
go out of their way
to see its dominance,
its decision to no longer
sit quietly in the
shadowy corners of night,
hoping only for the attention
of the nocturnal.
Moon and sun share nothing
except the shape which is a circle
which is a cycle
which is no end, no beginning
which is matter
which is life.
In smoke-smudged sky
sun shines neon red
and milky,
an unlikely combination.
Below trees burn to black,
necessary destruction.
The mountain, a colossal phoenix.
Huckleberries spill from plastic bags,
plump with purple,
round and firm
born to fill pies, stain lips,
harvested from mountains
where they have been fed
by last years ashes,
sustenance from destruction.