Nebuchadnezzar

Sent soaring in the sky,
after being dropped off
at eight fifty eight a.m.,
he arrives at eleven forty a.m.,
--barely--he says.
Because the Santa Ana Winds are
raging in the South, where fires
blaze and occupants vacate, where
the vulnerability of thirsty hillsides
actually become of interest to folks
not in the real estate business.
"The plane cheered when we landed safely"
he says, trying to communicate how scary
the whole thing was without losing his
masculine edge.
"I could see all of the fires from the sky"
he says, warning me about the issues of
proximity: my mother, his mother, our childhood
homes, schools, play-spaces, and memory lanes.

I interpret his codified language
and know
the layers of smoke, piles of ash,
fire truck sirens, relief workers,
and fearful inhabitants of my home-land
are proliferating by the second.

I recite the most over/under rated prayer:
"Oh my God"
because something burns
in here too.
At once a visitor and native,
I'll be back tomorrow, to see,
if the fourth one, unbound and unharmed
will show up, again, to walk with us,
in these e(x)ternal flames.