they become a train! Fire-cats link
to make a tiny steamtrain purring o'er
ridges, crags, unerringly toward fire.
Crews trail quick on our trampled track.

Camp at eve on riverbeach. We'll reach
the front tomorrow. But one cat short. I
show her photo round, 'explaining' "She
was exhausted, wouldn't leap o'er
the planterbox at our greenhouse door.
Time ran out, so I had to shoot her."

If you call that justified! Felicide
even to blustering me. Now, though, she
reappears, hale. Firecats who died
in the smoke-bruised glow of day
resurrect at eve. This is, after all, a
Cat Valhalla.

Next morn, we climb over pillow-hills
with heather-cloth in bright rust-hues.
A world of lovely strange. Look down
from a blanket-ridge onto the Fire
bed midslope. Quickly quelled; it was
already starved. Quilt-tinder failed.

The poor kit scorched to death. Fire-heroine. I
say "We're experimental, no regulation crew;
a RED coffin's unrequired." Their captain says
"We thought departmental colors would be
only what the kit deserves--but of course you
knew her better." I think things through,

Say "You're right, and I'm glad you did.
Of course she deserves full honor." Such
Memorials are for living not the dead. I
just privately think it a waste of glossy red
since night-breath fans all our cat-coals
back to red flame: revives our lost souls.

Half awake now, I feel my leader-fuss
herding our indestructible cat-team
is like Jane's Emma, managing friends'
loves to serve the fading walls of class.

Or like that crazy Frenchman in the film
Dear Inspector, stalking to protect
his delicate daughter's sweet pussy by
fatal-accidenting every man she dates.