The river wet enlivening deep musk, the tickling fragile herbal dust, on the dun haired backs of the forest kine, the single glinting shafts from east to west where the day is born. Now the water glances and tumbles past its shallows clear and reflecting bronze. Pools struck and splashed before the halting hoof, the stumbling instinctual leap, the hammering heart's ease beyond the flames. Long and deadly fingers burning gold Within a new sun. He, roaring rage at the storm that devours his woods, Hesitates.
Smoke scrapes lungs sore and paints red corners in soft, brown eyes.
Together they race beyond the sound of death. They will survive. In spring the tasty bitterbrush will come again. And life will rise again from blackened earth. His short stories and poetry appear in magazines and electronically.