That old dead grass is burning
Along the hillock's gully
With all those rocky outcrops
Its smoke lifts up and o’er the fields
The earth still damp and flattened
Clumped from winter's burden
And a vanished blanket of snow
Now exposed and thickly matted
Freeze dried and turned brown
Soon to be fringed with black ashes
Dozens of these trailing plumes
Rising up and down the valley
One by one as I watch 'em burn
Their smells now watering my eyes
Now making my clothes smell
A controlled burn billowing smoke
Fanned by such gentle breezes
Blowing on this first day of spring
Slowing waiting now to turn green