What God Said on the Radio Today

I tossed kindling on the coals and they lit, fed the dogs and let them out and in again ( it's 40 degrees and raining), poured my coffee with cream and composed a Haiku on Olive, my new-old typewriter. The radio was on, Morning Edition from far away-- the NPR studios- and from nearby. Amanda is up the hill at KHNS in the Chilkat Center, reading the school lunch menu and the ferry schedule, waiting for the sun to rise, too.

So I type:

The California Fires

The President is raving

Let's go for a walk.

The thing is, I am working on paying attention to the good. I listen closer. Then I write:

Do you ever hear

God talking on the radio?

What does he say?

( I know, it's not perfect 5-7-5 but it adds up to 17, and pretty good is better than perfect.)

Then this happened on the radio, and in my living room, as my hands rested on the keys, listening:

A fireman walked through the embers of Paradise, he was from Oregon, and had that friendly accent that is kind of the way the Haines fire chief speaks, or my neighbor Lyle, and fireman Al; humbly, gently, matter-of-factly. He said it was the saddest sight he'd ever seen. I heard him, but couldn't absorb the magnitude of the loss. Maybe I didn't want to. Then he saw a wounded doe standing in the smoke and ruins. I was so afraid he'd have to shoot her-- But then-- and this is what I will hold on tightly to for the rest of my life --  He gave her a pan full of cold water. He said He hoped she'd drink it. 



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