Over the blackened timbers
arcs of water rainbowed, lovely
from this angle. Hoses turned off,
the shimmering arcs collapsed
and the big drums on the rigs
rewound the flattened hoses.
Helmets under their arms, men
wiped their brows. We cheered
though the rubble smoldered,
smoke and steam commingling,
the tang of it still in our noses,
and, as we turned to go home,
the sound of someone keening.
Click here to read Richard Hoffman on the origin of the poem.
Image: Fireman Watering Fire Photo licensed under CC 2.0.
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