morning walk

The river in green and glassy garb
exhales mist so coolly opposite
to fire's cloudy breath

Young mister three climbs the gate
threatening to hurtle down the hill beyond.
But he pauses on a rumble;

that cough, that roar, it's the voice
of big machinery. He points "a bulldozer!"
And there it is -

a yellow blob just above the riparian zone
marking a gap between last summer's purple scars;
those ribs of foliage-free hillside.

My small friend is transfixed by the power -
even at this distance - threats of escape forgotten
so I lift him down

and take his hand. "Let's catch up with grandpa,"
I murmur. "you can tell him about the bulldozer."
I ache for the new wound

which I know will be there tomorrow
as gaping as a flame's blue mouth
but never once as beautiful.