A scorched moonscape slashed across the mountain;
Smudgy charcoal tree stumps stood shadowy
against the sore earth.
A rough restless wind blew
ghosts of green grass memory and
a hawk soared high, searching
for warm rodents nestled under the ground.
The springs still seep water; soon seeds will sprout.
Ground squirrels will whistle to each other,
bright on blackened boulders.
I know balance will return;
That the brush is cleansed and renewed.
Ashes will bear life, but
right now it looks like a barren wasteland.