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Show Go Love/211 that rolls the windows up tight and that thin glass alone is between us and it. The drive itself is maybe five miles. Cop cars flash a quarter-mile out on the main road, Highway 191 that runs down into Dutch John and river road I've heard that it's possible to see things through peripheral vision that elude full sight The fire is neither young nor old. The fire makes much seem ridiculous. The language the fire makes is now. The word the fire says is yes. I love the fire. I fear it as no other. It makes sense for me to be here now, to pass through fire. My wife and daughter are far away now. The fire is the quickening before birth. I drive past the cops, past river road and Dutch John's gas station with the sea-green Volvo up on stilts, onto the highway to a rest area that overlooks the gorge. When we stop, I look for a second at the tremendous burning, a cloud that resembles still photos of mushroom clouds, nuclear bombs, fission A ski boat tows a slalom skier who takes a mighty leap across the wake, slices the glass-still water. The fire is behind him. He does not seem bothered. That was us, where we'd come from, who we are now Flaming Gorge Lodge is sleepy, they've seen this sort of thing before, the wait-staff and guides, no big deal. A world-record Mackinaw trout with a pouch of Skittles in its mouth hangs on the wall behind the hotel clerk's counter. We're shaky. Behind us, in our wake, the town of Dutch John is being evacuated, the fire on it like a hurricane. "Can I help you" the woman behind the counter says. I say, "I hope so," and ask for a room, whatever she has. "We have dogs," I throw in for some reason "They're good dogs. We've been in the fire." |