09 July 02008, Missoula, Montana, USA

Mount Sentinel is on fire,
and the Constitution is burning,
ignited by leftover Independence
Day fireworks and fear-brand patriotism.

One white helicopter dips water
from the Clark Fork, carries it to the line
of orange flame. People stand on the river trail,
commiserating with one another. Our crews are thin,

sent to fight fires in Big Sur;
our Reserves are in Iraq. Red firetrucks
wait at the bottom of the mountain. Deer leap
into the gorge, then walk calmly into town. Smoke

furls down into the saddle, down
into the valley. The line crawls higher,
one line of flame meets another, a long curved
gesture of fire, grass that seemed green and strong

burning, burning. The Fourth
Amendment is smoking, curling into
ash. As the sky darkens and the mountain
grows brighter, we retreat. We stand at the windows

of our wood houses, watching
the flames climb up, climb down
the mountain. We are mere citizens, civilians;
the fire is near, but far enough, and we leave it

to the professionals. Finally,
we go to the private, inviolate embrace
of our own beds, almost secure, almost believing
that our castles are safe, that the fires won’t reach us.