Controlled Burn

Between two stops,

where the train slows through open land,

I looked up from my phone

and there was fire.

Not dramatic—

a line of it moving through dry grass,

low and patient,

the way water moves through sand.

Orange at the front.

Black behind it where it had already been.

And at the far edge of the burn,

one person in a coat,

not moving,

watching the fire come toward them.

The train kept going.

I had maybe forty seconds—

the grass, the line of flame,

the figure standing still

while the distance closed.

Then utility poles.

A highway. The back of a building.

I don't know what the fire reached.

I don't know if that was the point—

to stand at the perimeter

and let it come

as close as you'd already decided.

My stop was next.

I put my phone away.