Little Cottonwood Canyon, 1970

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Other people’s fires
smell so good when
late at night I
pull into the garage
imagining them reading
or drinking cabernet,
maybe a fire on the mountain
flickering light in cold,
as domestic as sharp pine
in my nostrils. Did she
ask him to light it, did he
know unbidden, have they
measured out wood against
the night and their winter?
Or is no one watching
this dream curling
up chimney except me?

— William Marling

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