Frost Bite

Allister knew
that the cloud cover
couldn't show up
in time.

He placed his hands on the horizon
arm's length,
and discovered
he only had two,
maybe three
hours of daylight.

It was already
cold.

His fingers ached
as breath spumed
in nebulae that
crystallized, fell:
Frost on the ground.

The fire was high,
but not high
enough.

It crackled, reported
and screamed; a billowing
and waving semaphore
of light and
heat.

Ahead the moon,
already eager, late
in the month,
was high in the dome;
Artemis taking aim,
seeming to close in on
Apollo.

"At least there will
be plenty of light tonight."

He thought of a cold, stiff-legged
walk through
the moaning pines
and in that frigid
glare, gunmetal light
of the waxing moon.

Lifting, chopping, toting,

Feeding that insatiable
beast that
keeps him alive, here,
that cracks and
spews and sparks and
demands.

Hacking and splitting,
Allister's hands made
mitts of callous
ice full of
pressure and

He fed the blaze.