After the burn, rain. Soon rivulets will stream steep slopes, swamp creeks with dark ash. But for now the still forest is yet needled sepia, a ghost. The ground a carpet of smoke. One standing fir bark-stripped: Jesus on the Mount, hands at his sides. One valley over, two elk cows graze a green-fringed streambed.
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Reading, I could see it. Vivid, this poem. The last line clinches it.