We returned to the thrice-burned wood,
shoulder of Klickitat
once dense green,
now spiked with ghost trees.
Close to downed trunks
ash white and charred black
we turned soil, pulled grass,
and set in live starts
of oceanspray / ironwood
and wooly sunflower.
Around the new plantings
we built flimsy graze-guards
of slender limbs, snapped
from the desiccated bodies.
The October sun was strong and gold.
The earth in our fingers was soft and dark.
A raven flew over and shared
its deep, purred croak.
Young firs waited,
waist-high, green, patient
in grassy fields pierced
by their forebearers’
wooden bones.
The mountain watched us, bright
rock-gray and snow-white
under the blue sky
and stretched out its immense
life-clothed folds
as far as we could see.
