This is the time of year

when almost every night

the frail^{2， illegal fire balloons appear.}

Climbing the mountain height，

rising toward a saint

still honored in these parts，

the paper chambers^{3 flush and fill with light}

that comes and goes， like hearts.

once up against the sky it's hard

to tell them from the stars

planets， that isthe tinted^{4 ones：}

Venus going down， or Mars，

or the pale green one. With a wind，

they flare^{5 and falter6， wobble and toss；}

but if it's still they steer^{7 between}

the kite sticks of the Southern Cross，

receding^{8， dwindling9， solemnly}

and steadily^{10 forsaking11 us，}

or， in the downdraft from a peak，

suddenly turning dangerous.

Last night another big one fell.

It splattered like an egg of fire

against the cliff behind the house.

The flame ran down. We saw the pair

of owls^{12 who nest there flying up}

and up， their whirling black-and-white

stained bright pink underneath^{13， until}

they shrieked^{14 up out of sight.}

The ancient owls' nest must have burned.

Hastily， all alone，

a glistening^{15 armadillo left the scene，}

rose-flecked， head down， tail down，

and then a baby rabbit jumped out，

short-eared， to our surprise.

So soft！a handful of intangible ash

with fixed^{16， ignited eyes.}

Too pretty， dreamlike mimicry^{17！ O falling fire and piercing cry and panic，}

and a weak mailed fist clenched^{18 ignorant against the sky！}