This is the time of yearwhen almost every nightthe frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,rising toward a saintstill honored in these parts,the paper chambers flush and fill with lightthat comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hardto tell them from the stars—planets, that is—the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,or the pale green one. With a wind,they flare and falter, wobble and toss;but if it's still they steer betweenthe kite sticks of the Southern Cross,receding, dwindling, solemnlyand steadily forsaking us,or, in the downdraft from a peak,suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fireagainst the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pairof owls who nest there flying upand up, their whirling black-and-whitestained bright pink underneath, untilthey shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,a glistening armadillo left the scene,rose-flecked, head down, tail down,and then a baby rabbit jumped out,short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!—a handful of intangible ashwith fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
O falling fire and piercing cry and panic,and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!
For Robert Lowell
