Sushmita SridharA firebird springs across the fields,
forest-bound skimming scarlet, down
brown-gold slopes speed to a eucalyptus blue;
As she cackles, flitting from twig to twig.
balling down the hill, gathering speed;
white smoke and crackle pause at meandering tar
before leaping up again across crown-shy canopies
blazing smoke-white, her shadow wings across the valley,
until all that’s green shimmers down to black gold.
The valley, incensed with pine and burning conifer
needles up to lazy wood smoke wafting up the sawing sheds.
I can’t see the mountains for the trees today:
for between white branches, tender leaves unfurl
an autumnal glow,
and leaven the morning with a woody crackle,
smudging green to charcoal this smoky spring.
