SMOKE / HUMO, a poem

IMAGE: August wildfire smoke, first light, the WALLOWAS, OREGON. SMOKE Each day, the rancher gets in his white flatbed rig and turns the key on a view of the world that begins with the sounds of hate, not of his diesel, but the radio. Hate radio. Each day, for twenty years, before first light, he hears these same voices explaining to him the evil of the world. Ragheads. Radical leftists. Those dark- skin worthless bastards from somewhere south of where he’s never been. Each day, the price of beef sinks further and further into clouds of wildfire smoke that settle down over his house, his family, his cattle, his hopes for future, what? That’s the part he can’t get clear. He turns the radio off and spits out the window. The Sun appears as a small, muted, dim orange disk over Idaho, smoke so thick the headlights don’t shine past the gate. Thank God the cows still eat the hay. That’s the part he can’t get clear. He turns the radio off and spits out the window. The Sun appears as a small, muted, dim orange disk over Idaho, smoke so thick the headlights don’t shine past the gate. Thank God the cows still eat the hay.