Three orange things

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1.
Our broody orange hen will never hatch chicks
but she will try every day in the flat hot summer
huddled in the nesting box over eggs she laid
and eggs laid by her friends. She hopes for one
whose tooth will crack the pale shell.
When my husband comes home, he asks,
Has anyone seen Sunny today?
and the answer is No
because she has shut herself away
waiting on eggs that will remain eggs.
2.
We have an orange cat who visits our yard now,
my friend tells me. Her children chime in, saying
he’s mean and he’ll bite. But he thinks he lives here—
even pushed a paw in the open door.
We see him later, shaded by a lush shrub.
I ssppss ssppss ssppss to him. Her son says, He won’t come.
He saunters over anyway. I tell myself that I am magic,
that I am so good with cats. I glow with smugness.
A few minutes later he appears again, winding
with rowrs around my legs. I reach to pet him.
This time, he turns and sinks his teeth into my hand,
whipping claws against my palm. Go away.
3.
The sun and its light are dull and orange.
This is because Spokane is burning.
I’ve reached that point again
where I can’t bear to look at the news
and can’t bear to look away.
When we go outside, the air tastes gray.