Spears of light cross the site of a recent forest fire. Nature's own scorched-earth tactic to lift rots so deeply hooked only the greatest wakes can even dream of curing. Wisps still rise lazy through air thick with the haze of a world burned. Of course there was beauty lost. Yes, there was a good place or two buried in the whorl of venom and thorn. Yes, there was a hidden flash of petal if you knew where to look in the rotten gardens. This world needed a conflagration.

This land here teemed.

Clouds break and the sun belts down another embrace as I hop, skip, leap, jump over craters, arms up and hips twisting to show the world that I can dance too. I can sing. I can tell you I love more than anything. Cracked earth lifts and cakes bare feet but I don't care for sharp stones. I don't care for a twisted ankle. I don't care for a slight or a back turned. First rains take time - we're still off season, you know - and first shoots need first rains. Time yet will give us a single sprout here, a green blade there.

This land here teemed.