JEFF EWING
UNDER SANDHILL CRANES
Two or three sticks of cherry molder
in the basket by the fireplace, old
ashes have drifted in the corners. A spider
web as gray as my hair loops from
the flue. Out front, under the overgrown
camellias, I've stacked the rounds
from an oak branch that fell at the end
of summer. The wood will be cured
by next fall—maybe we'll have a fire
then, the three of us huddled in a half-
circle watching the flames, close
as only fire can bring us. I can smell
through forced heat the must of smoke
tucked into jacket pockets, and hear
in the clacking of a flock of sandhill
cranes passing over the pop and crack
of pitch igniting. They say—people
do, not the cranes—that heat is heat
no matter what the source, and don't
see any loss in the conversion.
Jeff Ewing's poems, stories, and essays have appeared in ZYZZYVA, Willow Springs, Sugar House Review, Crazyhorse, Southwest Review, Dunes Review, and Saint Ann's Review, among others. He lives in Sacramento, California with his wife and daughter.