There, look, see -
in the place where the wind
blew the brush fire through
the summer pasture burned
every blade of quiet grass, cremated
every ground-hugging insect, chased
every feral rabbit toward
the safety of the wet creek;
the wildflowers are blooming,
bright sky bluebonnets,
red-orange flames of Indian paintbrushes,
tiny yellow-sunned coreopsis, thicker here
than any part of the unscarred field,
a phoenix of color rising from the ashes,
a benediction rising from the flames.