The fire waits with tiger paws
on silent haunches by the hill,
then mounts the rock with clinging claws,
and contemplates the moment it will
pounce—on sagebrush dry as bones,
under a ghostly quiet moon,
slink through tinder, stalking homes,
and spring atop a shingled roof.
In blazing orange black white cape
it roars at scorching desert sky,
dives on prey, devours the take,
smoldering embers in its eye.
We scan the canyons, fear the sight
of fire—the tiger in the night.
*“The fog comes in on little cat feet…”
Carl Sandberg
*“Tyger, tyger, burning bright…”
William Blake
