Through the kitchen window I see
a dragonfly girded with blue
stopping for breath
on an aspen branch.
Dragonflies never walk, they only
fly (my son once told me). Never
had I seen
in our backyard. Startled, I think
this one lives west, over the ridge;
from the heat
and smoke of fire that makes it fly
and flee away from its normal
home to take
refuge, a rest, in our yard. Blue
just like our pre-wildfire sky,
a voice in the wilderness,
a messenger preparing the way,
for the flames
are at hand.
We follow the dragonfly and flee
the fire coming down our mountain.
Like the confessors
who flocked to the Jordan,
I repent. And I know, along with
the kingdom of God,
is at hand.