Above the pines of Mariposa, crimson embers climb, The Colorado Fire consumes the edges of our time. Along the high Nevada ridge, the Hawk Fire flares and roars, While beneath the Capitol dome, behind committee doors, They weigh the cost of sparks and wire, of liability and pain, Debating what the grid must bear before the autumn rain. In crowded aisles and border posts, the quiet battles rise, Where contraband and stolen freight are stripped of their disguise. By millions stacked and poisons seized, the sirens cut the air, A statewide sweep through neon streets to stem the ruin there. Far out to sea, the ocean turns—Marie begins to wake, She will not touch the mainland sand, but sets the surf to break; A heavy mist, a surging tide that rolls on southern shores, Where lifeguards watch the undertow and churn of coastal floors. Up on the slopes of Mount Shasta, through white and freezing frost, Where trusting eyes met glowing screens and wandering souls were lost, The rescue rope pulled climbers back from shadows in the snow, While down below, the classroom bells command the screens to slow— A paused frontier of code and thought, an unsettled decree, To teach the young to trust the mind before the machine runs free. And deep beneath the asphalt veins, where Santa Rosa lies, And Oakland feels the Hayward wake beneath the evening skies, The earth confers with ancient rock, a shudder through the floor, A gentle shudder, brief and low, to remind us of the shore. Between the blaze, the rolling swell, the tremor and the wire, The golden land remains awake, forged through salt and fire.
