This is what it's like to be
downstream of catastrophe
Away from flame and wind
Yet carried as far Napa's call.
An acrid, melancholic cry
shouted through the haze in the sky.
How pale, sickly, the orange sun;
stifled yellow coats, hatchet men.
As we pick up the pieces
of a scattered puzzle,
the grapes of wrath
grow heavy with the vintage.