First the smell of fire
Not fire—smoke—
The smell of smoke slides
Down the mountainside
On the back of the wind

No one seems to notice
Not the priest and his wife
Not the two retired Greek generals
Or their wives
Eating lunch outdoors
At the priest’s home

They talk about the church
The liturgy the art of chanting
Subjects the generals know well
They have come from Athens
To the island to visit the priest
To see his church and the Holy Icons
To chant with the chanters

And always wind off the mountain
Wind through the pines and palm trees
Through the olive trees and almond trees
The trees bend away from the wind

Is that the fire
Asks the wife of one general
Yes the priest says
On the other side of the island
Not far—a few kilometers
Are we safe—asks the general
For now—the priest says

We must pray to God
To put the fire out
The general’s wife says

The priest smiles
If we wait for God
We will all burn to death

The smell of smoke
Not smoke—fire—
Fire crackles
Down the mountainside
On the back of the wind