A sweep of brightness raises the mountaintops from sleep.
As if on cue, a rush of breath answers the stuff of ages,
the essentials, forest awakened by silences rising
once the flames have fallen. Now you can set down your fears;
you can see them. Sprig by sprig, the forest unwrapping layers
of light. The old and the new, shoulder to shoulder. The tribes,
clarkia, lupine, conifer, marking time in concentric circles,
working through the intricacies. As if following instructions
in amber, red, and green. And now the wild ones, inner eyes
drawing from the Pleistocene, are arriving with the disposition
of their ancients. And the order. Foxes, mice, owls. Yipping,
declaring the bounty.