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Birds of the Fire

Edward S. Sorenson

When warning scents the noon-wind brings
    And hazy smoke-clouds rise,
The hawks that soar on tireless wings
    Arrive with eager cries.
Before the flames the cohorts beat;
    They scan the scene below
For birds and reptiles that retreat
    In terror from the foe;
And as the growing red lines race,
    Bare-sweeping nest, and lair,
The circling wings increase apace,
    And whistlings fill the air.

Birds of the fire,
    They lead the blaze
O’er grass and mire.
    Through smoke and haze.

Behind the line of flame and smoke,
    Filled with excitement rare,
As though it were a splendid joke,
    The kookaburras fare.
Slow flying from low limb and stump,
    By littered ways and scrub,
They watch about each burning clump
    For lizard, mouse and grub.
And when they spy a crippled snake,
    Choice target for their bills,
Their loud and merry laughs awake
    The echoes in the hills.

Birds of the fire,
    They chase the blaze,
And, fed, retire
    To laugh and laze.

Last come, when all the land is black,
    And tribulation grows,
For pickings on the ruined track.
    The jubilating crows.
When other things have fled in haste,
    Or perished, beast and bird,
For days they haunt the blackened waste,
    For days their cries are heard.
‘Mid desolation, death and strife.
    As kindred souls they tread;
Where famine reigns for other life
    For them the feast is spread.

Birds of the fire,
    The black patrol,
When the flames expire
    They take their toll.

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