Accidents, More than a Century Apart

Chicago, 1871: a summer of little or no rain, a city 
constructed of wood. In the O'Leary barn on 

De Koven street, a cow supposedly kicked over
a lantern, starting the blaze which rapidly spread

from block to block, aided by a southwesterly wind.
Did it have arson on its mind, just so a cadre 

of architects could usher in a new era of steel-
girdled skyscrapers glinting above the river 

at sunrise, slate and terra cotta tiles and roofs? 
Daniel Burnham drew up the plan for the city;

he also made the blueprint for a colonial hill station 
in an archipelago on the other side of the world. 

Its original bones are hard to see now, underneath
unchecked development: high rises, hillsides packed

with houses where I remember thick stands of pine used 
to grow.  One night in March, Block 3 and 4 of the Baguio 

public market went up in flames. There are no official findings 
yet, though stories are starting to circulate: this is where you

would buy chicken, have its feathers singed on stoves fed 
by LPG tanks, then plucked and slowly beaten for that 

native dish called pinikpikan: offering to gods and ancestors 
who ward off evils and accidents, as well as possibly cause them.