Plume

by Olivia Dawson

This evening the air thick with resin
clings to our hair and skin

dust powders our lashes
and floats over stick-dry clothes

scattering ashes over shirts
pegged out like penitents.

Pine cones pop with heat
spitting seeds that twist

in a mad choreography
and a monster moon looms

through a bendy mirror
like a red balloon.

Papery fronds curl at the bottom
of the lily pond

and we race to fill it
to the brim with water for the birds

before we flee to the beach
to the salty incoming wind.