The fires that burn to the north of us,
force PG&E to extinguish our electricity.
By day sunlight fills the house—

I carry milk, bagged cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce,
eggs, other perishables out to store in our icy garage.
I cook food on our stove’s gas burners.

We park our cars on the street. We leave
freezer doors closed hoping for the best.
Those three nights in darkness—

we turn on flashlights, a camping light, burn candles
and listen for news on one small battery driven radio.
Television often steals the evening hours, now

our words fill the silence spoken in hushed tones
as if conversation, sacred.
We read by camping and candlelight at the kitchen table.

I pile two extra blankets on the bed, but should’ve known
we’d sleep bodies pressed together— make our own heat.