Wearing blue coveralls, they sit sometimes for days, laughing,
eating, joking... waiting for one sound, a siren
that transforms them. They abandon their armchairs for overcoats
of canvas and for rubber boots, their armor heavy and hot.
Instead of trading jokes they relay directions, and orders, and shout
reports of the status of the enemy -- "FLAMES ARE VISIBLE"
Fear and excitement grip the hearts of the freshest rookie to the oldest veteran
as they jump into their steel Trojan Horses perfect from polishing,
washing, checking over and over -- they pray that they have made no mistakes.
The driver navigates the craft through the city streets he knows as well as his family,
dodging when possible those that get into the way, hoping those
he can't avoid will see him first, they spot the enemy from blocks away --
the Phoenix rises far above the trees, licking the sky.
They arrive at the scene, and again the battle cry is heard --
  "FLAMES ARE VISIBLE" Smoke fills the air and their lungs
     as they approach, hoses snaking, crisscrossing, coming to life
  as they surge with water from yellow and red hydrants
that suddenly become grotesque heads of Medusa. They kick open the doors, rubber
from their boots leaving a print melted by the heat, and trickling
over bubbling paint. Orange liquid flames roll
through the building, slithering up and over the walls, breathing
in and out with each puff of air. With swords of water they charge
and the war begins. They battle -- nine or ten against one -- seemingly great odds.
But the nine soldiers will win, emerging from the battlefield victorious
as they always do, and eventually, they'll retire to their armchairs,
thanking God that this time nobody was hit by the enemy - "Fire".

Author Unknown