Muted palette of grey playing before me

The browns of shadow fallen to narrow path

The blues of rock-broken boulder bled and dry

The greens of pine praying the wooden tower

Each true color holding its grey for all time

 

The crusted stump of fire-torn forested life

The soot soft skin recalling all to hazard

Its ash giving nutrient to wild flower

Red trumpets bend, round and lovely, in homage

Their chorus of song swelling in sweet caverns.