The bulk of central Oregon's ablaze,
a million acres, near as we can tell.
Horizons dwindle in this toxic haze;
myopically, we navigate through Hell.
Fire policies embraced in 1910
that felt so forward-looking, now seen cruel.
We've queued the same catastrophe again
Suppressing every fire, we banked up fuel.
A managed forest, leaving room to drive
more like the climax woodland long before,
might flare up briefly, yet go on to thrive.
Instead, each August smells like baleful war.
Until--improbably--we really learn
we'll build more wooden houses, and they'll burn.
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