Lighting The Burn Barrel Amidst A Red Flag Warning  | Avery Gregurich

It did get away from me once, I won’t lie, but I threw enough bricks to knock

it down, back, cinders flying all around my head. Over-zealous eater that I am

I pushed more sticks than the barrel could hold and burned my arm up good

and sweet and washed out the smoke later but kept smelling my raw cradled

arm all afternoon. The barrel blew itself bigger then out. I walked to the shady

corner of the yard where no grass will grow, pouring the seed like sand in

piles like clumps and watched the wind work them down into rootless bluegrass

shadows. The neighbors whistled at the sight of me all roadside-folk-art-granny-bent 

over the bare spot. They said that my hair was long, she and her wife smoking and 

scrolling sitting on their porch. I asked about their water bill. They asked about the 

best time to transplant, me finding the first bald part in my beard of irises. Turns out 

dog’s got a murmur in her slim heart, worst vet’s ever seen. I said you mean heard 

and she said no I mean seen and brought me over to look at the murmur, which I saw 

whispering through the collie skin. Finally time for evening pills, pets first, but first she 

brings out a folded towel which holds spoons that she turns away from each other and 

begins playing against the towel she’d draped across her thigh. I suggested she add 

metal rings around her fingers. She nodded slow and solemn, blowing smoke out 

listening. I left turning away from where her spoons were still ringing and opened 

my eyes up wide. 

Avery Gregurich is a writer living and working in Marengo, Iowa. He was raised next to the Mississippi River and has never strayed too far from it.