I'm Maggie Smith, and this is the slowdown.

One of the sounds I like best is fire.

I don't mean the loud roar of a forest fire.

I mean the soothing, crackling, and popping noises of a fireplace.

The fireplace in my living room is out of commission.

But it's not unusual for me to put the fireplace channel on while I'm working.

Crackling birchwood fireplace in HD specifically. My kids make fun of me for being particular, but what can I say? I like the look of the birch logs,

and sometimes I find one of them reading on the couch, cuddled up with our dog, having a cup of tea.

And what's on TV? That's right, crackling Birchwood fireplace.

Fireplaces, thunderstorms, ocean waves, these sounds are popular white noise for sleep and relaxation.

And it's odd when I think about how these sounds represent very real dangers in nature, about how we are soothed by the contained version of something that can harm us.

Today's poem masterfully balances that tension,

and it makes me think about these sounds in a new way.

Or am I a room with a roof taken off,

still holding onto my idea of a ceiling by Kelly Hofer.

The other night I woke in the early morning and texted myself,

Can You Hear a Fire? Not asking about the moment then, but about the potential

of a moment of being proximate to heat and feeling it with my ears. My sleeping self, thinking not, I think,

of the domesticated crackle of our gatherings out in the cold,

of what will be remembered as the time of collective sickness

and the collective fear of sickness approaching.

The hearth kept us civil for half an hour.

...