Phoenix

We have a small property in Wyoming that used to house a beautiful mountainside forest. A forest fire was leaping its way toward our haven and the BLM had no choice but to light a backfire with our skyward kindling and evergreen acres. The fires merged and extinguished each other; no other damage was suffered in our oasis of clustered cabins. That sacrificial portion of our land resembled a pile of black pick-up sticks when we purchased it five years ago. Over time it has slowly, according to the laws of nature, resurrected itself into an aspen grove with aspens no taller than six feet. This summer Greg and I went hunting for phoenixes in our new woods. Do you know how refreshing one sunlit lime green leaf looks in a charcoal prison?

Little leaf. Little leaves. Bigger leaves. Taller trunks. Thicker bark. Branches barely embracing. Roots secretly sharing.

Invisible networks of strength have already pushed life and hope six feet up. Soon there will be no more char, no more scars, no more evidence of what passed. The end result will be a canopy of lime wind chimes quaking and shooshing the rumors of the past. The grove will tend itself, welding its wooden weak links stronger, finally igniting into flames of yellow gold for all the ridge to witness.

Beauty for ashes. It happens all the time.

*Coincidentally, I am almost six feet tall and feel that I have sprouted a few lime leaves since last year's fires.